


Unbelievers: Fragments

by imperfectkreis



Series: Tate [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, M/M, Name-Calling, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random one-shots from tumblr prompts that may or may not actually fit into the m!LW series Unbelievers/Fools Gold. I try my best to make them readable without outside context. Graphic m/m sex.</p><p>Most of these chapters are a self-indulgent Butch/m!LW AU  where Tate has amnesia in a contemporary setting....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charon/Tate, Rivet City, "missing scene"

**Author's Note:**

> So these are originally prompts from my [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com) as opposed to from the fallout kink meme. They skip around even more than the main series. Yeah, I know. But I needed a place to dump these fics.

Charon's cigarette pack was nearly empty. His spare, wait, that was his spare. The marketplace below deck wouldn't be open for hours yet. Even then, he couldn't go himself. He'd have to ask Tate to go for him in the morning. Charon made the locals antsy. 

When they picked up the second vault kid, too pale and primped and clean for the Wastes, Charon was hoping for some reprieve, someone else to act as a buffer. He should have known better, that Butch was just as much of a fuck-up as Tate.

He sucked down his cigarette, sticking the filter back into the box. No use littering. Unlike the rest of these people, he was born into a world of order and cleanliness. The planet was coming back along, no point in delaying the process. The rest of these men and women would die. Charon would still be here, though. Bound and angry, but alive. Maybe for another two-hundred years.

There were boots against the deck, heavy as to not startle him. Tate, dressed in his vault suit, arms tied around his waist and a white tee on top. Charon didn't have to see the kid's eyes, under sunglasses even though it was two in the morning, to know they would be blood-rimmed burning.

"I wanna suck your cock," he bit out the words. Dropping to his knees on the metal, Tate fidgeted with the front of Charon's pants. Fuck him. Charon had been certain that when they picked up Butch, that would be the end of that. Tate made him stand guard while Butch fucked him up against what could barely be considered a wall ten minutes out of vault 101. Tate's cried about how much he missed Butch, that he was sorry, but never said what for.

But here he was, again, all eager and on the verge of immolation, blond hair flying everywhere, on the precipice of something ready to swallow him up. Or maybe it wasn't that profound. Maybe the kid was just fucked.

Charon got hard, hated himself for it. When his previous owners forced him to fuck women for their amusement, at least they came with a set of tits, some pretty hair, and soft skin, all those trappings of femininity that Charon sort of knew he sort of liked before things were always sort of dulled.

Couldn't even pretend all that with Tate, not with the way his biceps strained as he clenched his fists against the deck. Not with how his Adam's apple bobbed, swallowing down Charon's cock with wet, slick gulps.

Charon put his hand to the back of the kid's hair, grabbing hold and pressing deep, the frames of Tate's glasses scratching against his skin. He knew Tate didn't really want to blow him. He wanted Charon to fuck his face until he was a sniveling, sobbing mess of saliva and cum and regret. But he hadn't asked, so Charon made the mistake of thinking maybe he wanted this too.

"Make me feel bad, Charon."

Command.

He didn't know why Tate asked. Why he continued to ask. Tate felt nothing but tortured all the time. Spoiled brat.

Charon's hips surged forward, knocking the back of Tate's head against the railing and his sunglasses off. The bar nailing him full on with a clang that reverberated down the length of the ship. The kid's whole head rattled on impact, must have been seeing stars. Seeing his next life. Charon grabbed onto the railing, using it for leverage to fuck Tate's open mouth. They were alone up here, but Tate was still louder than he should have been. Whimpers and groans and thrashing limbs. Choking, hacking noise at the back of his throat as saliva pooled at the edges of his tightly-pulled lips.

Tate pressed his palms against Charon's hips, right where his pants hung open. He pushed back like he wanted Charon to slow down, let in a little reprieve. But he hadn't commanded Charon to do so. Couldn't anyway, not with his mouth full of cock and his head full of constellations. 

Kid wasn't strong enough to hold him back. Oh, he was strong alright. For a teenager who spent his spare time showing off, making himself pretty rather than useful, who was a good eight or nine inches too short to give Charon a run.

Instead of pounding the deck, Tate reached back, grabbing the railing behind his head like a life-line while Charon held him open. Charon watched his eyes close, open, roll back as he gagged. 

His balls got tight, so did his lower abdomen, but Charon came dry. A whole bunch of shimmers that fucking went nowhere before looping back around. Sometimes it was like that, sometimes it was like before he started to rot, wet and messy and humiliating for his lay. Charon didn't know why, but it didn't really matter. Maybe better if his cock came off next. Sure, it felt good to get sucked. In a distant sort of way. Maybe after this kid, he'd get someone who would buy or steal him something better. 

Pulling out of Tate's mouth, Charon waited for his next command. Tate just huffed down air like a drug, shooting up oxygen. He fell forward onto the deck, coughing up nothing, dark blood dripping from his nose. There would be no question what they had done. Well, some question. Charon could have been pummeling the kid, with his dick. Okay, there was only one option.

"Tell me, Charon, what a piece of shit I am."

Command.

Charon grabbed him by his hair, wrenching Tate's face so he could see into his dark eyes. So Tate couldn't look away.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You got that pretty-boy downstairs in your bed, and you come up here for a walking corpse to fuck your throat? Are you just that much of a whore that one cock isn't enough for you?"

Tate worked his cock in one hand, pulling with such ferocity, Charon couldn't imagine it actually felt good.

"He fucked you too, didn't he? You just wanted to get filled up at both ends. Disgusting, you're garbage, you know that?" Charon threw him back down by his hair, letting him hit the deck.

"Fuck," Tate groaned.

Charon didn't bother to watch him come all over himself, twitching on the rusting deck under a polluted sky. He could only hope this would be the last time. He lit another cigarette. 

Tate didn't say anything after that. But he didn't leave either. It took some searching with his Pipboy light on to find his sunglasses. After that, he just sort of stood next to Charon, not too close, and looked out across the darkened water.

Charon was required to keep him safe. But he already knew he couldn't. The kid would end up dead. Someone else would grab his contract. Maybe one day something would get him too. Charon didn't think it would be for a long time yet. Humans were porcelain, not predators.


	2. Amnesia AU, chapter 1, Butch/Tate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is au, non-post apocalyptic setting Butch/Tate. Prompt was amnesia.

Tate wakes up. That should have been enough. That his eyes flutter open, taking down big gulps of air. He stirs in the hospital bed and asks for water. He doesn't try to run, they had been worried that when he woke up he would try and bolt. But Tate lays back down like a docile patient. That should be the first clue.

Butch calls for the doctors, his hands shaking. 

The doctors push him out, leave Butch to pace the hall. He doesn't wander far, wanting to be in earshot when Tate calls for him. 

It only takes seven and a half minutes before the doctors start filing out. They talk amongst themselves about inane shit. Where they want to go for lunch, another, more interesting, patient down the hall, last night's serial drama. No one bothers to pay Butch any mind. 

Technically, he guesses, they can't tell him anything. That was what they've been saying all along, that only 'next of kin' can get privileged health information. No one listened when he tried to explain Tate doesn't have next of kin, not anymore. That Butch is it. They've let him sit by Tate's bedside during visiting hours, but that's sort of the extent of what he can do.

Tate doesn't call for him.

Butch stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame. He watches as Tate shifts around in the bed. His hair looks real stupid, stuck out at odd angles. They trim the hair on coma patients. So Tate's left with some half-blond, half-black monstrosity on top of his head. He'll fix that just as soon as Tate gets checked out of here. Once they can go home.

His apartment is real small, it's all he can afford, basically a box with a roof, with enough space for a mattress and a lamp. Tiny kitchen. But they can squeeze in for now. If Tate can't work, that's okay. Before the accident Tate sort of took care of things for the both of them, even though they still lived with their parents. Now it was Butch's turn to make things right. He'll take such good care of Tate.

Butch snaps out of it when he realizes Tate is staring at him, but hasn't said a word. He just sort of smiles, a little open mouthed. But he doesn't say anything.

"Can I help you?" Tate asks.

Butch's smile drops, shattering against his jawbone.

"Tate?" his voice cracks on the name. A name that has been in his mouth since he could talk. Under all possible circumstances.

"Yeah," Tate looks away, crinkling his nose, "the doctors said that's my name."

He won't cry. He won't. Instead, Butch picks at his cuticles, "yeah."

\--

He still comes to see Tate at visiting hours. Butch also knows he's gonna need more money, but he only picks up shifts when he can't be at the hospital.

Daisies. He buys daisies. Tate would've knocked his block off for bringing him flowers. But Tate's not Tate, so he accepts them with a smile. Says they're pretty. His room fills with vases. Butch has gotta stop buying him flowers. But then the old ones start dying out and he's gotta replace them. He's gotta.

The doctors are gonna release him, Tate says. But he's got no next of kin. They told him that too. That his mom died when he was born, and his pop's dead too. For a flicker Butch thinks maybe Tate remembers. But he doesn't. 

"You knew me, right?" Tate bites his lip, which isn't something Tate does. "Do you know, I don't know, where I was living?"

Butch doesn't know which is kinder, the truth or the lie. He knows the lie is the thing he wants. And he admits, wholeheartedly, that he is a selfish person. "Come stay with me."

Tate smiles.

\--

Before leaving the hospital, one of the aides cuts the last of the blond out of Tate's hair.

Butch knows they can't share the bed. That it wouldn't be appropriate. They didn't...get to that part before Tate's accident. Close, though, close. A tangle of arms and legs, wet mouths pressed against each other. The slow drawn hours reduced to a couple of seconds of coming in each other's hands. Fuck. Butch has gotta think of something else.

He makes sure there are daisies on the kitchen countertop waiting when they come home. Tate sticks his nose in them.

"I think they'll always remind me of you, now." Tate says it like he's already thinking about leaving.

Butch gives Tate the mattress and sleeps curled up in a sheet on the floor at the other side of the room.

\--

Half-groggy, Butch can hear Tate at the stove. He's cooking something. Something. There was bacon in the fridge, so, maybe that? Butch rolls over. It's still dark outside.

"Tate, what the fuck are you doing?"

Tate drops the spatula, reaching out with quick reflexes to grab it before it can hit the floor. "Sorry, I guess just, being in the hospital fucked up my sleep schedule."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Butch isn't really mad anymore. "Make enough for two?"

Tate nods without turning his head. He's just in his boxers, the cheap ones they bought on their way from the hospital, along with a three pack of shirts. They'll go shopping, sometime, or something. Butch doesn't wanna go to Tate's dad's because he's afraid Tate'll want to stay there instead. Where there's a proper bed, and a TV, and all his actual stuff. Like this dream is gonna end when Tate walks through that door back at his dad's.

He doesn't know, maybe then Tate'll remember him.

What Butch can't forget easy are the lines of Tate's back, solid and firm. Making bacon isn't really strenuous, but watching Tate shirtless is.

They eat from one plate, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Their hands get real greasy and they wipe them on Butch's shirt from yesterday.

"So, I guess we were really good friends, right? Before," Tate points to his head, "this."

"Something like that," Butch admits.

"Well," Tate bites his lip again, "thanks, for everything."

Butch hates how every word Tate says sounds like 'goodbye.' And how all of his sound like 'I'm sorry.'

\--

He goes to work, comes back, Tate's still there. In a tee and boxers and nothing else. Makes Butch wanna drop to his knees and suck him off in the middle of his tiny, crappy apartment. Because maybe then his life won't seem so tiny and crappy while he's watching a body walk around without his friend's ghost.

But he doesn't. He just says hi. Hi, Tate's body. Is Tate home? Can he come out today?

\--

Tate moans in his sleep. Butch grips the sheets, grips his eyes too. Like that'll blot out the sound. It's not for him. He's just gotta make himself believe it. Not. For. Him.

But something has gotta yield so he gets right up to the side of the mattress to wake Tate. Because that's better than this torment. He tries to will his erection down too, but that might take more miracles than he's got left.

He shakes Tate's shoulder, then again. Tate's dark eyes finally open and he does that gasping thing like when he first woke up in the hospital. 

"It's okay, it's okay Tate, you were having a nightmare." Probably not true, unless it was a particularly hot nightmare. Actually, Butch isn't sure what Tate's sex dreams would be like because even though he really desperately wants to put Tate's dick in his mouth, Butch still dreams mostly about big tits and small waists. Just sometimes that waist is still Tate's.

Tate grabs onto his shoulders, but he doesn't feel warm or shaky or any of that. He just feels right. So Butch tries to forget about all the things Tate has already forgotten.

\--

Until the night he wakes and it's Tate who has crawled off the mattress and next to him on the floor. His hands aren't at Butch's shoulder, but they might as well be. He's just fucking, hovering. Tate's eyes look all bright although really they're dark brown and it's dark in the apartment and he's just this void that sucks up all visible light.

"Tate, Sorry, was I having a nightmare?"

"I don't think so."

Butch waits for a follow up that doesn't come. He sort of already knows because he's hard and Tate's name was right there at the tip of his tongue. Now Tate is staring. Just staring. Great.

"We were friends." This time, it's not a question.

"Something like that."

Tate kisses him, not hesitant, not slow, but also not like his Tate. Just in case Butch got any sort of illusions about bringing Tate back with the power of his dick. Okay, so he has thought about that. But he wouldn't actually try it. Except it's Tate's lips on his, Tate's weight pinning him to the floor as he climbs up and over, straddling Butch's hips while pushing past his lips. Butch would say it was like drowning, only it isn't. It isn't like that at all. It's teeth and saliva and it's gonna wreck him for what comes after.

"Tate? Do you remember?"

He shakes his head, "no, but you do."

Butch shakes his head too. "I can't. Not if you don't know me."

His cock says he can. That he'll flip Tate right over, even though he was always the stronger one, and fucking pin him to the floor. Stretch him open, make him scream. Make it so no fucking accident is gonna make him forget the feel of Butch's cock in him. He'll nail Tate's wrists above his head, hold him down and take him...

These thoughts are not helping.

"I do know you," he presses his palms to Butch's bare chest. "I know you're the man who sat by my bedside for months while I slept, not knowing if I would wake up. I know you're the man who brought me flowers for weeks, never saying why. I know you took me into your home, you haven't touched me, though it's all you think about. I know I think about it too."

Butch groans as Tate's fingers travel round. Collarbone, sternum, rib cage, hips. Like he's got half a dozen hands instead of just two. Digits fanning out like petals.

"Butch, did you fuck me? Before?"

"No," Butch groans, trying to keep it together.

"Did you want to?" Tate smiles.

Butch grabs at Tate's hips, flipping him over, though he's still sure Tate's strong enough to stop him.

"Better make up for lost time," Tate taunts.


	3. Alternate final chapter for main series (incomplete)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote this as part of the final chapter of Fool's Gold before deciding I wasn't very happy with it. I think there are some really pretty lines in this, and little scenes that didn't make it into the main series, but in this format I was particularly unhappy with a couple of things, so I scrapped most of this.
> 
> It's been edited in terms of typos and such, but in places it's a bit rough. But it seemed a shame to just throw it all out.

It ended like it started, with the sea.

But we have to go back. Not all the way to the beginning, but close. A second sort of beginning, that started with the end of the world. 

Before the bombs fell, they drew numbers, and those numbers were attached to names. And those numbers and names meant that the DeLorias made it into Vault one-oh-one. Standing outside, holding the bag of a world alight with radioactive flame were the Zhangs. All just a matter of numbers and names.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, and then Butch. 27th of December 2257. He was a bald little squirt with cloudy blue eyes. His mamma thought he was precious. His papa too. All underground children with their fingers and toes in place were precious. Some of the babies had started coming out broken. And so, when the Overseer asked in hushed whispers for volunteers to scout the surface, Papa DeLoria signed up. Anything for a better world. But the surface world was a brutal one. He didn't come home. Mama started drinking. Butch's eyes started to clear.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, and then Tate. 13th of July 2258. The first person he ever killed was his mother, though he didn't mean to. In a fit of panic, his father tossed aside the cards he was dealt. He bought a new deck, paid for with his limited knowledge of anatomy and a silver tongue. The later was maybe the better skill to possess than the former. He took his baby boy with dark eyes and dark hair to the only vault where he'd ever seen the entrance. He broke his fingers against the seal, begging to be taken in. Anything for a better world. He brought Tate home. He became the vault doctor. Here they would be safe.

So that, in a way, was the beginning. But we were going to speak of the sea.

Tate found Butch because the vault was nothing but a claustrophobic game of hide and seek. They broke each other's noses. Tore at each other in anger. Then they started watching those dirty vids that Butch found on a wrecked terminal. Butch commented on the way the cheerleader's tits bounced. Meanwhile, Tate mused on how Butch's cock looked so perfectly swollen in his hand. How he wanted to hold it too. Wanted more than that.

The first time they kissed, Tate cut his lip along the ridge of Butch's teeth. He was so giddy that he broke one of his fingers too, smashing it against the metal vault wall behind his head when Butch pinned him there. All sloppy and terrifying and perfect. Because damn if Tate didn't want Butch all over him since the day he hit puberty.

They'd almost gone all the way too, in Tate's bed. They curled up together under the thin white sheet. Whispered a whole bunch of silliness between them. Most of all, how fucked up this all was. How the Overseer was gonna kill them. And Tate put his mouth at the shell of Butch's ear, filling it up with hot breath, "Fuck me."

When the door swung open without his dad knocking, Tate was filled with such unbridled rage he froze. Instead of screaming and destroying, he froze. His dad walked out, trying to catch his tongue before it got away for good.

Then, like Papa DeLoria before him, Father Zhang made a bet on the Wasteland and it cost him his life. It cost Tate his safety too, ripped him up from the vault like unripe harvest, because it's easier to brand someone a traitor than to listen to reason.

Tate had to kiss Butch goodbye surrounded by radroach corpses, Butch hated those things. Their guts clung to Tate's fists. He almost had the courage then to tell Butch he loved him, without conditions. Thing was, they were still precious children, really. They couldn't imagine the conditions yet to come.

There were security boots clanging against the metal floor. So instead of telling Butch he loved him, Tate said, "Don't die, dickhead," and ran.

Outside the vault, with sixteen-eighteen-twenty-four, however many inches of steel and fiber between them, Tate wept on the hill where his father had screamed and broken open his hands. He doesn't want to remember pop's scars. 

This wasn't what he wanted. He'd grow to love the stars, and the way the air moved with the wind. But Tate hated everything else.

The shoddy robot outside of Megaton called him a Communist before opening fire. The rich fuck who wanted him to blow up the town called him exotic. And for the first time in his life Tate noticed he was Chinese.

He spread his legs for the rich man with the pulse charge even though he and Butch had never done that. After his pop busted in there hadn't been another chance. And now Butch was gone. So fuck him, fuck everything. 

Running errands for Moira was fine. Tate learned how caps worked, learned to talk his way into caps and merchants out of theirs. Could talk them out of their clothes, too. He poked around in run down grocers, tried not to think so hard about his pop. Fucker didn't want to be found. Fucker hated his disappointment of a son. That much was crystal clear.

Tate walked the dirt road through Springvale, another trip to grab shit to trade for other shit. 

Careless. 

It took four beefy raiders to pin him down, a fifth one to shoot him full of so many chems he couldn't feel his limbs but could so distinctly detect the fluttering of his butterfly lungs inside his ribcage. In the cloudy days to come, Tate wished for his broken bones to rip his insides to shreds on each heartbeat.

When he had the strength the scream, he also had the good sense not to. The raiders, they came for him, for the limp body they had rendered. They came to fuck him and instead Tate slipped his bonds. Fucked them up. Still hazy with chems, he broke their necks, dragged their corpses away. Laying back down, he waited for the next round, and the next. He killed them all. Their blood dried under his nails. They'd grown long during his captivity.

And when Tate saw the sun again, coming up from the basement at Springvale, he swore it wouldn't happen a second time. He wouldn't be useless again, he wouldn't be weak. Still, fuck his pop, but Tate would find him.

He ran the tunnels through the Capital. Made it to the GNR. Favor for a favor even though that Three Dog fuck had the whole Brotherhood wanting to suck his dick. But Tate wasn't about to suck his dick, so he got the satellite dish instead. 

And then the first time he laid eyes on the big ghoul bodyguard at the Natural History Museum, the one with the shotgun, who took orders and nothing else, Tate realized the safety to be found in the obedience of others. 

He told Charon to fuck him. Told him to stop. The ghoul took both orders. Hated both too. There was pleasure in that, that Charon didn't think anything about him, lower than dirt. 

Like the robot outside Megaton, the ghoul who dated from the war called him a Communist. They were sort of the same, Deputy Weld and Charon.

He put the satellite dish up without getting his ass eaten by supermutants or the Brotherhood of Steel. Tate was unsure which one he hated more. At least the mutants weren't responsible for what they were. Bloated bodies and mangled limbs. They screamed like they didn't understand themselves. If they weren't trying to kill him, Tate would have told them he knew how they felt. But they weren't about to wait around for Tate's friendly chat. They'd just as soon eat him.

The Brotherhood had no such excuses. They were armed, well fed. They were built strong and had clear eyes instead of cloudy. Tate noticed that too. The film that settled over people's eyes when they're out too long in the Wastes. Like a cataract of suffering. Every time he walked in front of a mirror he checked his own. They were still dark and clear. At least he knew the same would be true of Amata and Butch.

At Paradise Falls, Tate found a girl with her black hair bleached blonde, warm skin, and a face like his. Looking at her, Tate wondered how many more lies his father told. Charon mocked him, asking what a queer like him would do with a girl like that. Save her, that's what. If he could. Turned out that he couldn't. Clover tried to blow his face off, so he killed her instead. Later, his father denied Tate ever had a sister. Later than that, Tate forgot her name. She became that girl who sort of looked like him. Maybe, had she lived, Butch would have fucked her too.

Tate hated the boat. Rivet City. What a fucking name. It was like the vault, all hallways and doorways that seemed to lead to nothing. So he should have liked it. But somehow the similarity makes it worse. He wished he were safe, behind eighteen or twenty four inches of steel, sneaking behind his father's back kissing Butch in supply closets, trying to get him into bed to suck his cock. 

But instead he was on a shitty boat with some woman who knew his father. Madison Li seemed like she was torn between loving James and wanting to rip his face off. Tate was pretty sure the feeling extended to him. He'd never be able to detach from the ghost of his father. Not when they had the same face.

His father was here, already gone. 

Tate took one look at the guard, big and stoic and all too handsome. He swung between the levels of the marketplace. Charon waited for him up on deck with two packs of cigarettes. The residents of the ship didn't like him. Didn't like ghouls. They were fuckers, then. But Tate bought a bottle of vodka from the noodle joint and drank a fourth of it along with some mirelurk cakes that sat something awful in the pit of his stomach. He tried to wash it down with more.

He forgot about Charon on the upper decks. Instead, he tore off his suit, stumbled into a rented bed, and fisted his cock. He thought of the guard first, with his strong jaw and perfectly placed hair. What he would feel like flipping Tate over with big hands on his hips. Whether he'd force his face into the mattress, fuck him until he left welts on his back and thighs. He'd put his hand on his neck next, at the back of it. Pushing down, fingers curling until Tate couldn't breath. He would only choke up how much he hated this life while Harkness fucked him. It would be so, so good.

But Tate couldn't make the fantasy last. Because that guard, perfect as he was, accessible too, Tate bet he could stroll over right now, flash a smile and cant his hip, invite the handsome Harkness into his bed and get his way. But he couldn't do that to Butch. Butch.

In the morning they left Rivet City with a few more rolls of tape and some supplies. Tate bought Charon more cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. He didn't know why he kept making peace offerings. Maybe because they were both so wrong.

They found the vault. That fucking pip-boy, his forever until death, was just so useful for finding terrible things. The door slid back and Tate took a breath. But it didn't look like home. He started to cry because he wanted it to. He wanted this shitty vault in the middle of fucking nowhere to be filled with underground-children. He wanted them to take him in. Instead he found isolation pods with melting faces visible through frosted glass.

Tate wiped away the dust from the windows, stared at the ugly fucks underneath. Were people just better looking now? 

All the pods were full. Well, fuck that. He walked up to the one next to his pop and checked the vitals of the occupant. What was one more life? Not much. 

Tate pulled at the window until it popped open. One by one the vital signs changed. The body wasn't dying fast enough. He ripped up the occupant, tossing them aside. Male, maybe? Didn't matter. Their screen went dark. Must've lit back up when Tate climbed in.

"Close it," he instructed Charon. 

Charon slammed the lid, like he was closing a coffin. Maybe he was.

The simulation was beautiful in its simplicity. Tate was little. This tiny, weak body that wasn't his. The Doc was in a body that was stolen too. Cute little girl with her hair in curls. Tate could have played along. It would have been so easy.

He followed instructions, because he just wanted to go. Get his pop so he could kick his ass and get the fuck out. He broke up a marriage, he stabbed a man. He did a lot of things he'd never regret. None of this would bother him later.

But Tate found the failsafe. It would get them out and fuck the doctor too. And all these shits who got to live in a fantasy that Tate couldn't make stick, they'd be fucked too. He couldn't give in to the perfect contours. Because when he looked in the simulated mirrors, his face didn't look like his father's.

The soldiers came out in even lines. Their faces all perfectly identical. They were too close. So fucking close that they put tears in Tate's eyes. 

"Communists! Communists!" The test subjects screamed.

And through their noise, Tate took his little fists to their thighs, punching and clawing, but without the strength he had honed. Impotent in how tiny he really was here, inside.

Blood ran down his nose, over the curve of his lip, and down his shirt. He knew it was real. And the simulation felt real too. So he beat his body against the unyielding Communists until the illusion broke down.

When he woke, his father was there. He wiped the blood from Tate's face. He said 'I love you, Tate' but it sounded like 'you're a fucking idiot.' He just wished his pop could be straight with him, once in his fucking life.

On the road back to Rivet City, his father asked him about Charon. Asked if they were "good friends." Like he hadn't seen the bruises on Tate's neck. And he wanted to bite back, "yeah, real good. Guy hates me so bad he'll butterfly me open if I ask. It would be his pleasure to murder me instead of fuck me. But we can't always get what we want. So instead, I've just got his anger painted on my body." But Tate didn't say any of that. He grunted, said Charon is a good bodyguard. Because otherwise he'd have to talk about all the other hands that have had him too.

Another vault. This time looking for the G.E.C.K. Tate felt good. Felt great. His pop gave him something to do, something important. He almost felt okay. Charon came with him, smiled at him once too, through the bitter words. He still called him a queer and a commie, but more like they were terms of endearment. His father kept on saying he was proud, even when Tate tried to explain he was bad. Really bad. Pop wouldn't listen.

The supermutant in the cell didn't like him. Tate said the feeling was mutual and let him go anyway. Charon wouldn't go back to get the G.E.C.K. Said he was no one's errand boy. What a load of shit.

So Tate took the rads like he takes everything else. His body, his flesh sacrificed. It was the only thing the Wastes ever really wanted from him. To tear him the fuck up, make him mangled where Butch had once, in a moment of distraction, called him beautiful.

His father died. Because the Enclave couldn't leave well enough alone. The Brotherhood couldn't either. They thought because Pop sacrificed himself, they'd own Tate now too. Like his guardianship transferred. No one gave a shit about him. No one.

The body they left in the rotunda. Tate dreamed about it decomposing. He saw it night after night. His pop's body breaking down into carbon and gasses. But his face didn't go. Tate stopped sleeping. He drank a bottle of vodka in the Rivet City labs. That security guard called him disgusting. As if he didn't already know.

Amata's voice. A lifeline; a gift. They needed help. They needed him. And from the rented room in Megaton, Tate wanted to scream and scream so they could hear him up the hill. Instead he ran, Charon chased behind him.

He punched in the code, fingers trembling. He told Charon to wait. Wait. No one inside had ever seen someone like him. Fucking zombie. Charon took out his pack, leaned against the cliff, and waited.

Tate walked through the door that might as well have been solid rock a week prior. He walked the halls with his hands curled into fists. Ready to break the fucking neck of anyone between him and Butch and Amata. 

When he finally saw her, leaning against the wall of the clinic, his lungs felt ready to collapse. He rushed to her, grabbed her waist and lifted her up. He kissed both her cheeks. Said "thank you, thank you." She was so, so beautiful. Her face dirty and hair in loose curls. Her hair had gotten long.

In the corner, Butch spoke. Tate couldn't recall the words. Only the endless sink of lust, dread, exhilaration. Butch, Butch, Butch.

Butch looked away, let Tate go back to listening to Amata and the problem with her father.

Tate and Butch went to the supply closet. They touched and kissed like the months didn't happened. He never wanted to be parted. Never, never. And in that moment, Tate wished no other man had ever touched him. He felt as if every one of their fingerprints were smeared across his body in blood. And he didn't want Butch to look at him anymore.

He could taste Amata's balm on Butch's lips.

The next morning, he killed Amata's father. His fingers smelled like gunpowder. She knew right away, big brown eyes filling with tears. He told her there was no other way. That he drew first. Didn't she know? How would he even get the gun, if her father didn't draw one first? She knew he was a shit shot. The Overseer was over top of him when he pulled the trigger.

She told him he had to go. He was a hero, and he had to leave. Fine, fine, he said. "Butch is coming with me."

Amata nodded. "I'll find another Overseer, we'll go together."

But Butch had already made him promise to make Amata stay. "No, just me and Butch."

"Tate," she shook her head. "I'm pregnant. It's Butch's." She looked ready to break in two.

Tate told her no. Used sharp words that were nonetheless beautiful to make her stay below ground. When she agreed, he kissed her at her temple. She smelled like lemon soap. None of them had ever seen a lemon for real. After that, Tate would dream of a blue-eyed baby. Butch told him genetics didn't work that way. He should have paid better attention to Punnett squares.

Once outside, Butch said the sky wasn't what he expected. Thought it was really big, really blue, like someone could fall up into it forever and never see the end. Not that he was scared. He was a little scared of Charon though. In the vault, they were unaccustomed to rot.

Butch finished his cigarette and Tate said he wanted Butch inside him. More than anything else. But he wasn't so sure Butch wanted him anymore.

"I think I've made it clear what I want," Butch said.

Tate tried to smile. "You don't know." He meant to end it, 'who's already been there. Had me.' But Tate didn't say that. Butch, though, Butch said he didn't care about whatever.

The shack didn't have a door anymore, so Tate made Charon block the entrance, facing out. There wasn't a bed either. Butch mumbled something about Tate deserving more than this.

"I know exactly what I deserve, Butch, and it ain't you."

Butch threw him against the wall, maybe too hard because the barely intact walls trembled, threatening to crash around them. Tate bit Butch's lip until it bled, coppery-sweet at the back of his throat as he sucked down. Fisting his hands in Tate's shirt, Butch screamed his desperation in silence, grinding their hips together, punctuating with strikes and nips. 

He flipped Tate around, kicking his legs apart and holding him against the wall by the back of his neck. He kissed between his shoulder blades. Whisperd how much he missed Tate, that he felt so good in his hands. 

They didn't strip all the way. There wasn't room or time or experience enough for it. But they stripped as much as they needed, crumpling up their vault suits, sticking skin to skin.

"I gotta like, stretch you first or something, right?" Butch asked. "Like we, um, like we tried before."

Tate shook his head. "It's okay, I can take it. Just like, spit on your hand, rub it on your dick. I'll be okay."

Butch looked skeptical, but licked his palm.

He kept one hand tangled in Tate's too long hair the whole time. His lips went everywhere he could reach. Afterward, Tate didn't know what to feel, so he settled on hollow.

There was a lot to like about Big Town. A lot that made Tate feel not so empty inside. Made him want to stay. Because here were these kids, right? And looking at them, Tate could remember he and Butch were just sort of kids too, coming up on twenty, which really wasn't that old. And these children grew into adults. They survived for hundreds of years, generation after generation of kids graduated from Little Lamplight and came here, even though their parents didn't draw the right numbers and their pops couldn't draw blood.

Getting Red from Germantown was easy. Keeping Germantown away from the settlement was hard.

The kids could fight, a little, but not well enough. Tate realized he couldn't fight well enough either. He ordered Charon to teach them how to shoot the broken up rifles they had laying around. But what was Tate gonna do? Punch a fucking supermutant? Teach scrawny ass teenagers how to do it too? Naw, he sat by Butch's side as he fiddled with the protectron. 

Tate asked him how he got so good at robots. Butch huffed and said Tate was just too busy sucking his dick to ever notice. 

The sun fell down too early, crashing into the horizon of the Wastes. The mutants tore Bittercup up. Sticky too. They snapped their limbs, pulling them from rolling joints. One bit down on Sticky's arm before tossing it aside. Fresh flesh between its yellowed teeth. Tate vomited, not knowing what else to do. All over his boots. He would need new ones after.

When it was over, mutant corpses strewn across the dirt, the losses were not so very great. Big Town would be okay. But Tate wouldn't be okay, wasn't okay. He hadn't been for a long time.

Along the roads of the Wasteland, the Brotherhood of Steel were always asking questions. They knew who Tate was, because they knew his dad. There was no mistaking. And these big fucking heroes said they needed help from a twenty-year-old asshole who sometimes could barely move. Sometimes he could barely sleep.

Charon died. And that was sort of Tate's fault too. But in the days that followed, he felt sort of smug about it. Because this meant that he wasn't going out like Charon's last owner. He wouldn't have to suffer that buckshot in his gut, while the zombie stood over him and called him a Red. So, fuck Charon.

And fuck the Brotherhood too.

They taught him to wear the metal cage that would make him impossibly strong. They taught Butch how to fire a laser rifle. And they taught him to stand beside a robot that was bent on the elimination of all Chinese Communists. Tate wanted to puke inside his helmet.

Once Autumn was dead, Butch finally said it. What Tate always knew, what he felt in the marrow of his bones for a long time. That thing he didn't deserve. Butch loved him. He loved Butch. But in the cell of the purifier, that wasn't enough.

And like everyone else who wasn't Butch, The Brotherhood took. They took months of his life he spent asleep in the Citadel, with Butch scared shitless that Tate wouldn't wake up. Butch cut hair in Rivet City. Didn't say anything to anyone, and ran for hours when he got word Tate woke up.

On their way from the Citadel to Megaton, they stole hours together. Because while Tate didn't want to spend a moment more around the Brotherhood, he wanted to spend eternity with Butch inside of him. They kissed and laughed and screamed about how happy they were to be alive. Like they had beaten the system. Butch said he loved Tate again. Tate changed the subject.

Amata had a little girl. They heard about it from Officer Gomez who gushed about "Freddie's little girl" over beers in that house he got from Simms. Then Tate killed Gomez by mistake. Really. Butch still couldn't convince him that his kid probably had brown eyes instead of blue.

Butch said he loved Tate. He didn't mention his mistakes. Including that bulk of metal that was A3-21 that Tate took to carrying around. Like a replacement for Charon. But A3-21 was even better, because when it said it didn't care about Tate, the words were absolutely true. It didn't stop fucking him when he started hurting, either. It would choke him until he went limp on the mattress, bruises around his throat.

Butch said he loved Tate. He didn't mention his mistakes. So Tate kept on making them. Right up to leaving for Point Lookout, leaving without Butch.

To get the tribals to trust him, he took the drug. Breathed it in, let it burrow into his fibers. At least this time he had a name for it: Mother Punga. It made him feel light, weighed down with the sins he couldn't forget anyway. He watched his mother die in agony. Only this time he was outside instead of in. But it wasn't not his mother, not really. Just some generic woman with the name "Catherine." He was more certain than ever before that he sprouted from his father's split head, fully formed. Because he couldn't see a trace of this "Catherine" in him. Her dark skin, her full lips, her broad nose. 

He saw Butch too, and Amata. Between them, holding on to her parents' hands, was that blue eyed girl. She had black hair and warm, pale skin. Rosy-cheeked and perfect. Tate wanted to grab her up too. Tell her she should never be afraid. Because she was loved. So loved. Even if he and Butch never really got to meet her. She should know, they loved her.

When he woke up, Tate knew he was different. Later, when he found the chunk of his brain Tobar took out of his skull, he considered chucking it into the water. He could watch it sink. Watch himself drown in this ocean instead of thinking about the Pacific. How many years since someone had seen both seas?

He tossed Burke's pulse charge instead. Because he had to let go of something.

Butch said he wanted to be Tate's husband. Tate could finally admit he wanted that too. They went out to the ocean with rings they got from corpses. Tate held Butch's face and laughed as saltwater flew into their face. He put their lips together, mumbling that this was the first and the last of his duties as vault chaplain.

They'd meant to stay. To make Megaton home. But they couldn't. The Brotherhood wouldn't let them, knocking at their door, harassing them everywhere else. 

It was an easy thing, to go for a walk around the settlement, for Tate to try and shoot tin cans poorly while Butch ruffled his hair. They kissed in the sunlight, surrounded by dirt and fresh water. The Brotherhood initiate thought he was gonna be the one to bring in the Zhang boy. Really convince him to join up.

"You could do so much for the Wasteland!" His voice reverberated through his overwrought power armor. "The Enclave still pose a threat."

Tate said no, went back to shooting tin cans.

The Initiate really didn't know a fucking thing, drawing his rifle on Tate. Saying that he was to come. Now. Back to the Citadel where he belonged instead of terrorizing molerats, selling crap, and wasting away in oblivion.

Even years later, Butch wouldn't be able to explain why he pulled the trigger on his laser rifle. He put the muzzle between the fucker's shoulderblades and shot. The Initiate phased to ash. Without thinking about what he had done, Butch kicked around the pile looking for salvageable e-cells he could take.

They walked back to their house, calmly, because no one knew yet what they had done. Butch convinced Tate they didn't need the android. It should stay. They gathered up things they would need, food, bottled water, ammunition. Tate kissed Butch on the stairs, standing one step above him so that he was taller, and said they would be okay. They were going to see the ocean. The other one. 

It didn't occur to either of them that no matter where they went, the Brotherhood was there too. A whole continent of fuck ups who thought they knew better because of some dented technology. What a scam.

In Columbus they waited for a caravan that was heading for Chicago. The barkeep. Wasn't so sure the trader would want them tagging along. Tate only said he was very persuasive and rolled a cap between his fingers.

Butch drank four beers, Tate five. They hadn't fucked since leaving the Capital. There hadn't been the time to stop, or the shelter, really. But Columbus was built up, a little. Truth was, it hadn't been hit quite so hard in the first place.

Tate whispered in Butch's ear to take him to bed. He needed help. Tate slid ten more caps than he needed to across the bar, smiling at the keep, thanking him for all his help.

Butch's neck tasted like soap, his mouth like lager. Tate said he wanted Butch to wreck him absolutely. Because he never wanted to see another cock in his life. Didn't even wanna think about them. He let his limbs go loose while Butch touched him, scraping nails against his thighs until red welts lingered behind. Butch spread his legs, bit his neck, and told Tate not to move. Just take what he was given.

He breathed in utter relief, "Yes, please."

In the morning Tate was sore and they were on the way to Chicago. He held Butch's hand through the miles, even after they got sticky and gross. The merchant said it was nice to see love, but they both knew he liked the look of Tate's caps better.

They stopped traveling with merchants after that, because they could tell the Brotherhood scouts in hooded robes who talked to traders about food and sifted through their wares for anything that looked to advanced to be floating around the Wasteland anymore. The closer they got to Chicago, the more the Brotherhood choked the landscape.

Tate talked a lot about California, though he didn't know any more than Butch did. They had both read the same tattered textbooks about that thing called the United States of America. They knew well enough that their ancestors had called it home, while they called it archeology.

Took them years to cross the continent, a stop and go of whims and desires. Places that seemed nice, until they were wretched again. It wasn't so bad.

2281.

In Arizona, they met a different sort of threat. One that thought itself big and bad but was still just a bunch of fuckwads with ambitions untethered by reality. But they were worse. So much worse. The way they forgot half the population were human. How they turned the other half into shoddy weapons. Legion.

Primm was nice, though, with rows of houses and people who didn't know a thing about the Capital. It made them forget all about the Pacific. Like, maybe they'd just stay. They'd get old and tired just looking at fucking cacti and listening to the wind. Wasn't the first time they felt this way. They danced in the living room of their rented house and pretended life was good. Butch stepped on Tate's toes, but he didn't give a fuck.

The Mojave express needed two more couriers. Just for this one job. It wouldn't be a regular thing. Tate wrote his down first, next to a name already scratched out.

#5. Tate DeLoria  
#6. Butch DeLoria

"Fuck, Nosebleed," Butch's breath hitched, "why you gotta do that?"

Tate smiled. Because he had chosen this. He hadn't picked his father.

For eight days Tate didn't know where Butch was. He knew that a scrawny Legion brat came at him with a ripper, shredding through his leather armor before Tate could wrench the weapon from his grip. He cut up the boy instead. Put him into little pieces. 

Tate sobbed until he couldn't see his pipboy screen through the clouds.

130758 > 271257: Butch? Butch answer me, please  
130758 > 271257: Where are you?

Eight days until Tate got an answer.

271257 > 130758: im ok. in goodsprings  
271257 > 130758: you need to come to me

He ran the whole way through, his arm still a mess because even under the best of conditions he could only stitch so straight. Felt like the damn thing was about to fall off, the way the skin stretched away from the threads.

But at least he got to wake up next to Butch in the doctor's bed. 

It was a man in a checkered coat, the one who shot Butch. What a strange disguise for Legion? It would take them awhile to learn he wasn't. Benny was just another fuck up who thought he knew better than everyone else. Who was trying to set the world straight. But waking up in Goodsprings, they didn't know that. They knew they hated the Legion, with every fiber of their being. Almost as much as they hated the Brotherhood.


	4. Amnesia AU, Chapter 2

They don’t fuck. Not that night or the one after. But Butch goes from sleeping curled up on the floor to curled around Tate, his nose stuck into the back of his silky black hair. Still weird, though, seeing Tate’s hair dark and glossy instead of blond and sort of fried. Makes it hard to forget that this isn’t the same Tate as before he lost his memory, maybe that’s a good thing.

Tate squirms in his arms, trying to turn around so they’re facing each other instead of spooning. He kisses Butch at his Adam’s apple, darting out his tongue. The sensation goes straight to Butch’s cock, same as the hum in Tate’s chest. He’s just warm and hard and sort of perfect. But it still doesn’t feel right. Like Butch has gotta court Tate all over again, even though they didn’t really do that the first time. Just once Tate got the bright idea to put his lips on Butch’s instead of his fist. 

And maybe that’s the difference too, that this Tate wakes him up with hands flat and gentle, instead of all fists. Like he’s gonna make them both soft in the process of making 'em hard. Doesn’t mean Butch doesn’t want him though. Fuck does he want him. 

“Want me to suck your cock?” Butch says real straight forward. Because fuck it, he wants to do it. He wants Tate to pull his hair, buck his hips, whine real pretty between gritted teeth. 

“Fuck,” Tate laughs, “that’s hot. Yeah, yeah if you want to.” He reaches into his boxers, pulling out his erection and just sort of holding it. Butch could’ve done that for him. 

Sliding under the sheet, Butch moves Tate’s hand off of his cock and sticks it in his hand on it instead. He strokes it real even, making sure it’s good and hard. He’s not gonna pretend like he’s awesome at this or anything. He’s gonna be awesome. Once he gets the hang of it. And he likes to think he’s better than Tate. Because he wants to be better than Tate at everything. But he needs more practice. 

Tate pushes down the sheet until Butch’s shoulders are bare. Okay, okay so he wants to watch. Fine. Butch will put on the best show he can manage. 

Opening his mouth, Butch throats down the first couple of inches, making his mouth real wet before tightening his lips. Tate gasps right away, all surprised and perfect. Just, yeah. So Butch slides back up to the tip, flashing his tongue over it, then pushing back down further than before. 

Tate sticks his hands in Butch’s hair. At the front, not the back like Butch told him before. Before. 

Butch pulls off. Maybe he shouldn’t have because Tate goes all, well, worried in his eyes. 

“No, just, um.” Instead of explaining, Butch grabs Tate’s wrists, rearranging his hands so his fingers curl at the hair at the back of his neck instead of the front. “Like that, okay?”

Nodding, Tate bites his lip.

Maybe this is still wrong. Maybe. But Butch takes Tate into his mouth again, listens for that hiss. He smiles around Tate’s cock when he feels it bob, when Tate’s hips roll in a way that might be beyond his control. It’s even better when he hears Tate again, going “Oh, oh, ohhh.” Real long on the last one.

Butch opens his eyes, trying to catch Tate’s. The way he looks at him is just sublime. Yeah, like one of those painters? Those German ones with the tiny people in huge skies standing on the precipice of a mountain? It’s like that, but on Tate’s face.

He kicks one leg out as he comes in thick spurts at the back of Butch's throat. Swallowing quick, Butch doesn't want to do something weak like coughing on the bitter cum. He does alright at it. What's better is how fucking tight Tate's stomach gets, the way it flexes and bends to Butch's touch. Then when he relaxes, boneless, and makes that noise again, "oh."

Butch doesn't know if this Tate'll want to kiss him after, this particular iteration. So he holds back, moving up along Tate's body, happy enough to be close. But Tate grabs at his shoulders, pulling him in until their faces smash together, missing mouths entirely. Laughing, Tate tries again, this time hitting his target, licking into Butch's mouth. Butch pins his hands on either side of Tate's head, liking the way his hair falls over the backs of his hands.

"Do you want me to?" Tate asks, his face full of something like hope.

"Um, ah, hold on. Just." He wants to be inside Tate, desperately. But he's pretty sure he can't ask, not yet. Even though Tate already sort of said he could. And it's not that he wants to miss his chance again, just.

Tate was the one saying he knew how. Before. And it's not that Butch doesn't know in theory, but like, shit.

Fuck.

"Here." Butch shifts his weight around some more. It's not totally elegant or anything, but he shoves Tate's legs real close together, his muscular thighs bracing against each other. "I'll be right back just," he leans over to kiss Tate again, "hold on one sec."

He rolls off the mattress to rifle through his hamper. At the bottom of his tees and socks and shit, he finds the bottle of lube he uses to jerk off sometimes, when he needs something extra.

"Just like," he pulls off his boxers before climbing back into bed, not missing the way Tate looks at him. Nice, nice. "Tell me if you don't like it, okay?"

Butch hasn't actually tried this before either. But he's not telling that to Tate. Slicking up his cock with one hand, he squeezes Tate's thigh with the other. 

"Keep your legs real close together, okay?" 

Tate nods, "Yeah, okay, okay."

Butch drops a little of the lube at the junction of Tate's legs too. Too much, actually, running over Tate's warm skin. Butch slips his cock between Tate's legs. It's warm, and not entirely smooth, Tate's leg hairs make it just a little rough. But it's okay, better than okay, it's great. Tate is alive and even though he doesn't remember him, it's great. Butch repeats it to himself.

"Is this okay?" He asks again.

"Fuck, stop asking," Tate bites his nails into Butch's shoulders, "just do something."

That sounds more like his Tate, so Butch thrusts forward. It's wet and just tight enough. Fuck, he thinks about how much tighter Tate'll be inside, warmer too. Just stuffed full of his cock and moaning for more. Already he's making these panting noises, his cock getting a little stiff again as Butch brushes against it.

They're gonna ruin these sheets but it's okay. It's great. Tate flexes the muscles in his legs, getting just that fraction tighter as Butch slides in, coming between Tate's thighs. Moaning deep, he keeps thrusting until he's good and spent, sweating and tired. 

It's sort of gross, laying in their sweat and cum. But Butch isn't ready to leave yet. His alarm goes off on the floor, blaring. He thought they had more time. Reaching over, he smacks to turn it off. He's gotta be at work in an hour. And he's gotta figure out what to do about the sheets because he doesn't have another set. He wasn't planning on doing wash today. He's gotta count his quarters out. 

Tate rubs his back with one hand as Butch sits up on the mattress. Butch tries not to think about how nice it would be to just get back into bed.

\--

When he gets back from work, Tate's already gone and washed the sheets, made the bed. Did Butch's other laundry too. But he hadn't left any money for that. 

Tate shrugs when asked about it. Says he convinced one of the guys at the laundromat to shove some change into the machine for him. 

"You don't have to do that," Butch starts to explain.

"What? I just asked, he was really nice about it."

Of course 'he' was. People were always nice to Tate, whether or not he deserved it.

But Butch sort of doesn't have a leg to stand on. Because he's pretty sure he gets to work the front desk at that fancy salon across town because the ladies who come in like the way he smiles at them. Like, he can't pay for a chair anywhere yet to actually cut hair. And he wouldn't want to do it in a place like that anyway, all stuffy and floral-scented. But it's what he can manage to get with a high school diploma and some shitty references that confirm he occasionally showed up to cut people's grass.

"Just, don't go asking for handouts again, okay? I'll leave you money, next time." Butch knows his face has gone all red. He hates it.

There's one thing they could do, though. He supposes they have to do it.

\--

Outside of Tate's dad's place, Butch pulls out Tate's keys from the pocket of his hoodie. It looks good on him. Butch likes it, how Tate looks in his clothes. They're close in size. Butch is just a little taller, not enough to make that much of a difference, and Tate's hips are a little narrower, enough that they can't really share pants because Butch doesn't have another belt. But, anyway, yeah, Butch likes how Tate looks in his clothes.

"So this is where my dad lived?" Tate asks. At least he doesn't say 'where I should be living,' which is probably closer to the truth.

"Yeah."

Inside everything is covered with dust sheets and plain old dust. Some distant relation or friend of the family or something had everything wrapped up when Tate went into the hospital. Li-something. 

Tate runs his hands over everything, collecting dust on the pads of his fingers, flinging it into the air too. Butch coughs into his fist.

"Remember anything?" 

Tate shakes his head, "no."

So Butch leads, taking them upstairs to Tate's room. His stuff is strewn all over the floor still, clothes, books, games, and shit. Nobody bothered to protect Tate's things. His dad had been dead for months before Tate's accident. His bed isn't made. They had been in it the afternoon before. When they got home from school they were supposed to do homework but ended up on top of each other instead.

Oh. Oh.

"Tate," Butch starts.

"Yeah?"

"You um, didn't finish high school."

"Oh." Tate doesn't seem terribly concerned but it's already October and Butch doesn't even know how to get Tate into school? How does that happen? Shit.

Tate goes about rifling through his stuff, pulling out pairs of pants, shoes, a couple of shirts. Butch swipes his laptop off his desk too, shoving it into his backpack. His broke awhile ago. Maybe it'll give Tate something to do during the day other than go to the laundromat and talk guys into paying to do their wash.

"I'm gonna, go through some stuff, see if your dad like," Butch hesitates. "If there's stuff you left in other rooms."

Tate smiles at him before he goes.

He starts in Doc Zhang's bedroom, looking at the bottom of drawers, through the closets too, between the pages of books. It's not much, but Butch comes away with a handful of twenties. Should help. Downstairs there's a little more. He hurries through, wanting to be done by the time Tate's finished. When he stops, Butch has found about a hundred bucks. Okay, okay. He puts most of it in his pack, except for a fiver he sticks in his wallet.

Tate comes down the stairs, dust smeared across his shirt. His bag is stuffed full. Butch doesn't bother to ask if he found everything. Tate wouldn't know one way or another. They just turn to leave together, Butch slipping his hand into Tate's. He's relieved, really, that Tate doesn't say anything about staying. 

Just before they make it out, Tate freezes. He reaches for a photo, framed on the wall.

"Is that my dad?" 

It is. Tate's about fourteen and Doc Zhang has his arm on his son's shoulder. They're somewhere down on the Mall. Maybe in front of the Natural History Museum? Butch doesn't know who is on the other side of the camera.

"Yeah."

"I look like him."

Butch doesn't say he does, because his Tate hated hearing it.

On the way home, Butch uses the money in his wallet to buy Tate daisies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon on tumblr asked for more of this....as long as people will read it I'll write it (or other ideas....roll into my ask box or comment here...)


	5. Amnesia AU - Chapter 3

Work's slow, but it always is, he just makes appointments over the phone and lets people know when the stylists are ready for them, helps people cash out, dumb shit like that. So Butch has time to dick around on the computer most days. His internet at home got shut off awhile back and he didn't fuck with it because his laptop was busted anyway. But if he can manage it, he'll make the payments to get it turned back on for Tate. The laptop they took from Tate's dad's isn't much of anything without it.

He tries looking up how you're supposed to enroll in high school after having been a vegetable for eight months, but then realizes Tate should probably just take the GED. Tate was smart, well, smarter than Butch, not in science but in a bunch of other things. Lit and shit. But Tate never paid much attention in school either. He could probably fake his way through an exam okay though. That'd be faster than Tate having to take a whole semester over. Cheaper too, maybe. Butch figures he'll buy Tate some books or something, right? There are books for that? And Tate will take the exam and then be qualified for all the same shitty jobs Butch is.

Butch still doesn't know if Tate will be able to work. If there's enough he remembers to like, be a productive member of society or some shit. But he was able to get the wash done, so even though he can't remember his dad, or his tenth birthday, or Butch, he can at least remember some stuff.

A customer comes in and Butch closes out of the browser window, smiles, and makes nice.

\--

Nova texts Butch just as he is getting finished at the salon, saying he can pick up a shift at the bar if he wants to. One of the regular busboys has called out sick. He doesn't want to leave Tate alone at home more than he has to, but the tips are always good. Texting back, he says he's got to shower first and he'll be right over. Money is better when he looks and smells nice.

It takes the bus almost thirty minutes to get to his apartment, but the bar is only a ten minute walk from there. He can still get a good few hours of working in before closing.

When Butch gets into his apartment, Tate is sitting up on the mattress, the computer in his lap. Fuck knows what he's been doing on it all day with the internet out.

"Butch," Tate's voice is kind of breathy, goes straight to Butch's cock. 

But he doesn't have time for this if he's gonna make it to Gob's, and Nova will never invite him back if he doesn't show after saying he would. But Tate apparently didn't bother to get dressed today and he's just sitting in bed in his boxers with Butch's hoodie thrown on top. Fuck.

"Yeah, Tate, uh, did you eat today?"

Tate ignores his question. "I've been going through the stuff, my stuff, on the computer."

"Yeah?" Butch tries not to get hopeful, like maybe seeing his dumb school crap or whatever jogged his memory. 

Tate bites his bottom lip. "There are a bunch of pictures."

That could mean anything. Pictures of rocks. Dragons. Porn. Dogs. Whatever. But Butch has a pretty good idea of what Tate is talking about.

"Oh, um, yeah."

While they never got around to, yeah, fucking, or whatever, they did get to other stuff. And Tate's dad bought him that fancy phone with the camera. Tate swore up and down that he would never show the pictures to anyone. Butch guesses that didn't extend to his future self who wouldn't remember taking the pictures.

"Tate? Are you okay?" Butch swallows hard.

"Yeah." 

From the way his eyes flick between the computer screen and Butch it's pretty clear he's still looking at them. When Tate shifts the computer in his lap, Butch can see that he's hard. Fuck. Maybe he should just text Nova and await her wrath because he's not sure he can just walk away from this situation.

Tate sits up straighter against the wall. "Could you get over here?" He squeezes his cock in one hand.

Butch figures he could shower in about five minutes. They've just gotta be quick. He can suck off Tate and still be out of the apartment in twenty. He goes to take the laptop from Tate, but he holds on.

"I want you to see too, though," Tate insists.

Sliding into the bed next to Tate, Butch angles the screen so he can see too. Even though he was there, he was obviously there, when he and Tate took the photos, he's never actually looked at them. They only took them a couple of weeks before Tate's accident. Butch realizes that while he was already eighteen, Tate wasn't....shit. Can he get in trouble for this? Wait, should he be in trouble for having...shit.

The photo on screen is one that Butch took. Tate's naked in front of the camera, his legs spread over Butch's thighs. He's smiling, with his head tilted to one side, bleached hair falling into his eyes. His body was harder then. Months spent in bed made him a little softer, not a lot, but Tate was ridiculous about his body before. Their cocks are pressed together in Tate's hand while he strokes them. If Butch remembers right, they couldn't actually get off that way, it was too clumsy. But fuck, it makes for a hot photo.

"That's you, right?" Tate's doing that breathy thing with his voice again. "I mean, with me in the pictures."

"Yeah. It was always me." Saying it out loud sounds kind of stupid. But Butch can't take it back now.

Tate flips to another picture. It's of Butch's face, his lips are wet and kind of puffy, clear enough that he had been sucking Tate's dick, or at least trying to. His eyes look really blue.

"Did you love me?"

Fuck, fuck. Butch doesn't want to answer that. He doesn't want to talk about that. Pretty much ever. It's okay that they messed around. That's fine. He came to terms with that long ago. But Tate, his Tate, wouldn't ask that question. Not like this, at least. So he hasn't thought of it. Not in those words. Not with that word. And the past tense makes things all muddy too. Reminds him that while this is a Tate, with the same eyes, and body, and lips, his Tate would never worry at his bottom lip like this one does. His Tate would just punch Butch in the face, then get on his knees right after and beg to suck his dick.

Butch takes the laptop from Tate, closing the lid and sliding it onto the floor. He doesn't want to break this one too. Starting with his own jeans, he pulls out of his clothes, leaving his shirt for last. Tate's eyes stay fixed on him until Butch leans over and starts biting at his neck. Does it so hard it's sure to hurt, bruise too, does it harder until Tate gasps. He wrenches his hoodie off of Tate to make more room.

"Tell me if you want me to stop, yeah?" It's a little late in the game with Butch's cock leaking all over Tate's thigh, but he doesn't want Tate to be here out of a sense of obligation.

Why is Butch here?

"Don't stop," Tate pants, "don't."

Butch helps Tate out of his boxers so they can press their bodies together without restriction, his on top of Tate's. He goes to nudge Tate's thighs apart so he'll wrap his legs around Butch's hips, but Tate's already doing it, pulling him in and locking them in place. Their cocks brush together as Tate squirms under Butch. Butch kisses him, tries to be rougher with it, teeth and lips and jaws. More like fighting. Maybe this Tate will tell him to stop. To not be so rough. But he doesn't.

Curling his hand around both of their cocks, Butch doesn't find the maneuver any better stimulating than last time. Neither of them have hands big enough. Or maybe their cocks are just too big. Yeah. And Butch gets all smug because he's a little longer and thicker so at least he's got Tate beat there.

Tate though, Tate's really fucking into it, groaning and mewling, "yes, yes," while Butch half-strokes their cocks. And Tate's fucking enthusiasm makes everything better. Always. Tate starts twitching, throwing his head back against the mattress, and coming all over Butch's hand, warm and viscous. Butch forgets for a second the line between the old and the new.

"You're such a whore, ain't you?" 

Instead of stroking, he squeezes. And he smashes his hips down against Tate's. Tate gasps like it's hurting and Butch starts coming too. Because, for a second, he can pretend.

He feels like shit after. But he's satiated and so is Tate. And Tate doesn't say anything about what Butch said.

Time's running out to get to Gob's, but Butch takes the moment to whisper, "sorry," into Tate's black hair.

Tate doesn't ask what for, so Butch just assumes he's forgiven.

"I'm picking up a shift at the bar down the street." Butch almost makes it out of bed. Before standing, he strokes Tate's leg from knee to thigh. "You can come sit around. If you want to get out of the apartment?" 

"Yeah, I think I'd like that."

Butch showers in record time, doing his hair while Tate takes his turn. He pats himself down with cologne too. When Tate gets out of the shower he practically licks him.

"I don't question why I was with you, before." Tate starts pulling on his clothes. "You're hot as hell."

Butch wants to just take the compliment but the past tense makes him anxious. Like they ain't together now. They're more a couple now than when Tate wanted those pictures. 

Before they head out the door, Butch puts Tate back into his hoodie. Mumbling something about the bar being cold. Tate's neck is black and blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeey so, tell me here or tumblr if you would read another chapter of this. Or if there is some other prompt you have for me (au or missing scene or whatever!). I'm super into feedback.


	6. Chicago/Berlin Nightclub - Butch/Tate - explicit

Tate presses his bare palm to the unbroken glass. A whole, unmarred wall of it stretching between two short bartops, one in front by the boarded up windows, a second in back by the bathroom with no doors on any of the stalls. The glass is dusty, but there is something serene about it.

"Butch?" Tate starts wiping away at the dust with the bottom corner of his tee.

"Yeah?" Butch goes through the club's cash registers looking for caps. He dumps the worthless pre-war bills onto the floor. His lit cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth as he works.

"What kind of people do you think came here?"

The club has been carefully boarded up, probably long before the bombs ever fell. All of the doors and windows tightly sealed. They'd found it by chance, following the L track north, just a little ways inland from the lake. Further north yet, at the stadium, they know the Brotherhood keeps units. Like hell they were going there. So when they turned west on Belmont to avoid the self-righteous fucks, they had noticed the building, seemingly untouched while the place next door, Cheezy's? had been ransacked. 

"Dunno, people who liked booze? How the fuck would I know, Nosebleed?"

Tate twists the ring on his finger. He's cleaned enough of the glass to see his reflection clearly staring back in the low light. His eyes look black.

Turning away from the mirror, Tate walks to the center of the dance floor. There's like, this platform? For an announcer, or host, or something, and the DJ booth elevated just behind that. Everything in the bar that isn't the mirror is painted this black tar color. He jumps up onto the platform then crawls through the open window to the booth, ignoring the door.

Inside it's crammed full of junk. He flicks through stacked CDs, most of them labeled in black marker as to what they are. There are video tapes too, and a player. Most of the labels have worn off. He picks one off the pile. 

Butch jumps up onto the platform and hands Tate an open beer through the window. It's surprisingly cold. Tate starts to ask about it but Butch shrugs, "Must be on the Brotherhood grid. Find anything good?" He leans into the booth but doesn't come in.

Tate pops the tape into the player. The quality is degraded, but it runs, pictures flickering on the monitors distributed through the club. There's no sound and the film is black and white. It's hard to make out anything at first. After fifteen seconds or so the picture gets clearer.

It's of two men, naked to the waist, with chests covered in dark hair. One has his back against the wall with the other pushed against him. They're tearing at each other's pants, their mouths meeting in a messy way that actually looks kind of gross because it's just so...wet. 

Tate wonders if that's what him and Butch look like. But they can't possibly because Tate's only got a small patch of dark hair in the center of his chest. And Butch shaves most of his off, except for the bit that trails from his navel down. And yeah, they kiss kind of messy and plenty rough. But not like that. That looks fake.

"Well," Butch takes a swig from his beer, "guess that answers the question about what kind of people came here."

Neither of them take their eyes off the monitor when the scene abruptly cuts. Two men again, maybe the same, maybe not. Can't tell because instead of faces they're shot from below. The frame is of one guy's hard cock in a bush of hair bouncing while another plows into his ass. There are big hands on his hips pulling him around while the other guy fucks him. 

Tate's hand tightens around his beer bottle and he remembers to drink. It's weird. Okay, it's really weird because even though he's always known he's queer, he's never actually thought that deep about it. Like, he's always assumed he looks good with cock in him because he knows his body looks good. And cock looks good. Therefore the combination should look good.

But while he's also seen porn before, he's never seen porn with two men. The vids he and Butch found on that terminal back home were all straight shit, or just perky women with big tits jumping around and sticking things into themselves. He figured Butch liked watching them, and Tate liked watching Butch get hard in his pants, or jerking off next to him in the cramped room where they would hide away and watch. But like, this is different. Is he supposed to like this? Tate's not sure he does.

Butch's hand is on Tate's wrist, drawing slow patterns with his thumb, all the while watching the video drag on. Tate takes another big swig from his beer, trying to chase away the nausea.

The video cuts again, this time to one of the men's faces. He's the one taking cock, bent over some sort of table, his eyes closed and mouth open. He looks like he might be moaning, like he's really into it, but there's still no sound coming through the speakers.

"Butch?"

"Eh, Nosebleed?"

"Do you like this?"

Butch shrugs. Puts his cigarette out against the exterior wall of the booth and picks up his beer again. "It's alright. You look better though. Getting fucked, I mean." 

Tate downs the last of his drink. "Butch, get me another."

Butch takes the empty before hopping back off the platform and heading for the coolers. Following, Tate leaves the tape running as he climbs back out of the booth window. He strips off his tee, using it to wipe down the glass more, right in the center of the long pane.

With the mirror clean, he can see most of his body, to about his knees, reflected back, and the third bar on the other side of the dance floor.

Butch hands him his beer. He's got a second one too. Tate chugs his down so fast it gives him brain freeze for a second. Shaking it away, he puts down the bottle on the floor. 

Tate opens his fly with one hand, pushing down his jeans over the curve of his ass. Butch is on him quick, leaning over his back, sticking one hand into Tate's boxers.

"Why didn't you let me do that?" Butch bites against the shell of his ear. His chest is warm against Tate's back.

"Just fuck me," Tate growls.

Stepping away, Butch snatches his pack off the ground. "You're fucking impatient."

"Turn on your pipboy light," Tate instructs, doing the same to his own before pressing both of his palms against the mirror.

On his way back, Butch pulls off his tee too. Though the idea of Tate being mostly naked while Butch is mostly clothed gets him, Tate isn't gonna complain about Butch stripping.

Since the android skinned his left wrist, Tate wears his pipboy in the right. Butch's is on his left, so like this, Tate's back to Butch's chest, the green wash of both lights illuminates them pretty evenly in the dimness of the club.

Tate arches his back as Butch slicks the lube against his hole, working one finger slowly into him. He doesn't need to be treated so gently. And Butch fucking knows that too. But they also don't have time to get injured and if Tate ever had to take a stimpak directly to his asshole again so they can outrun deathclaws it'll be too fucking soon.

He focuses on the two fingers scissoring him open and the picture of his hard cock bobbing in the mirror in front of him. Butch's look of concentration as he prepares him is there too, reflected back. It's hotter than Tate thought it would be, the care Butch takes with him, even if they would both bitch about getting too soft.

After all, they're husbands now. Husbands.

Butch pulls his fingers out, replacing them with his much thicker cock, his perfectly trimmed nails cutting into the skin on Tate's slim hips, because he's just holding on that tight. He pushes and pushes until his groin is flush with Tate's ass. Holding in place, he reaches around with his right hand to pump Tate's cock a couple of times. Fuck. They do look better than the fucking video. Tate knows for sure because now he's seen it with his own eyes.

"Ready?"

Tate whines at the back of his throat and nods.

Butch rocks back before slamming forward. Tate's strong enough to keep from toppling over, but he feels the glass give a little under their weight. He watches, eyes transfixed on the mirror as Butch fucks into him, his own cock bouncing in Butch's hand with each thrust. His blond hair sticks to his forehead as he starts sweating. Butch's pace is steady, unrelenting. Tate bucks back to take more with each stroke. It's the kind of coordination they've got because they've fucked a lot.

Tate thinks about how Butch is the only man he's ever gonna fuck from here on out. And he likes that. He fucking loves it. As much as he loves watching their bodies move together in reflection, bathed green from the lights at their wrists. He loves that Butch loves him.

The pipboys don't come off. Neither does their adolescence. That's why at almost twenty-two, they're here, together, always. Stuck skin on skin, sealed with ideology and trauma they can't erase. They can only do the best they can with the fragments they've swept from the wreckage, glued back together.

"Tate, you're so fucking hot, ya know. Can't believe you're mine. Look how good we look."

He hasn't been thinking about how Butch is watching too. His blue eyes are dyed green in the light. Tate's are still just dark. Butch is smiling. And Tate is coming, splattering against the mirror, streaking it with cum. Fuck, fuck. Watching his own body convulse with feeling is strange, disconnected in the best possible way. He shakes through Butch's orgasm too, absorbing his tremors. Butch moans against Tate's neck that he ain't going anywhere without him. Not again. Never again. Tate smashes his hand against the mirror.

The glass splinters under Tate's palm. They pull back just in time before it shatters, running in shards like a waterfall to the floor.


	7. Tate/Butch - Tate tops

Tate's humming, buzzing, something. Energy spilling out. He's moving his hips but with his socked feet still firmly planted on the kitchen tile. Wadsworth makes dinner while Tate fucking purrs next to the countertop. His sunglasses are perched on the top of his head, his cheeks slightly flushed from his day running around in the unfiltered sun.

Butch has been held up with a broken ankle for a couple of days, while the stims knit his bones back together. Technically he could go out, spend his days chasing Tate around the Wastes, but there's the chance the break won't set right. Like it'll hurt forever. So he's been laying on the couch while Tate runs errands for Moira. They don't need the caps, but Tate has been in a good mood. If he stays cooped up, he’s liable to burst open like ripe fruit, so sticky-sweet that he’ll ruin everything he touches.

“Whaddya making?” Butch asks. Though that really means ‘what is Wadsworth making.’ He and Tate don't cook. Dunno how, really. Wasn't on their lesson plan for vault life.

“Mac and cheese and cram.” They still like that kind of bullshit best. Pre-war tinned crap with the labels all yellow and peeling. Some of the Wasters think it's gross, eating 200 year old food. Like it’s fucking better scarfing down irradiated roadkill all the time. Him and Tate’ll stick to the processed junk sealed from the elements.

Butch isn't sure Tate even realizes how he's swaying to music that's only really in his head, hips rocking back and forth. They don't listen to the radio. Three Dog talks too much about Tate. 

Tate’s ass looks so fucking good in those jeans he found, so Butch stares, unabashedly. They almost fit him right, though he still needs the belt. The jeans sit too low otherwise. Butch kind of wants Tate to lose the belt, at least at home, so his boxers would show over the top.

Part of him still can't believe Tate said yes. That once Butch is better, they’ll go out to the Atlantic. Tate said he wants to see the sea. And he wants to be Butch’s, forever.

Tate gets out bowls and forks, because that's about as much of the kitchen as he can manage without fucking up. When Wadsworth announces dinner is served, Tate scoops big spoonfuls of pasta into the bowls. He dumps too much hot sauce on his own and a more reasonable amount on Butch’s. Like, that sauce is the best fucking thing they've ever found in the Wastes. Tate’ll punch a deathclaw in the teeth at the offer of another bottle.

With Butch laid up on the couch, Tate brings both bowls over, a bottle of water tucked under one arm and a nuka under the other. He whips the cola at Butch’s face, stating quite plainly that he's gotta make sure Butch’s reflexes are still good.

As they eat, Tate talks about shit he did today. Not much, really. Moira wanted plant samples, though all the plants are gnarly and tough. Tate shows Butch where the plants cut his hands. Leaning forward, Butch kisses Tate’s palms before he can pull them away.

“You're such a fucking sap, loser.” From the way Tate smiles, Butch knows his best friend is a fucking sap too.

Butch doesn't want to talk about how he's useless, just taking up space until he gets good enough to walk again, so he listens to Tate chew instead of providing conversation. The mac is pretty good, warm and filling. He scrapes the sides of the bowl to get it all, then drags his finger to pick up the last of the sauce.

Tate practically breaks his bowl against the coffee table, tossing it away. They're both pretty careless. Stuff is replaceable, disposable. There's this whole world of inanimate objects just waiting to be found. Shit that was mass produced in a time with like, fucking ten times as many people walking the earth. The end of the world made a bunch of people believe that objects were precious. But Tate and Butch know different. Makes them special to know.

Butch finishes up too, when there’s no cheese left, only marginally more careful with putting his bowl down. There's already this long, thin fracture running down the side. The ceramic could shatter at any moment. Better it not be in Butch’s hands. The last thing he needs is to injure himself again on the fucking dishes.

As soon as Butch’s bowl is down, Tate crawls into his lap, mindful of Butch’s mending ankle. They twist around to get the fit between them right. Butch’s legs end up propped on one armrest, his back leaning against the other. Tate gets in between Butch’s slightly spread legs, his head resting against Butch’s chest. They're a long string of points of contact. Little flares between them when one or the other breathes deeply. 

Butch plays with Tate’s hair. Tate never bothers to style it any, just letting it fall wherever. Hard to be mad about it, because it suits Tate. Smells like that new shampoo they found, like, cucumber bullshit. Before too long, Tate falls asleep, Butch still wrapped around him. Butch isn't tired though, so he fiddles with his pipboy, ticking off areas of the map they haven't been to yet. Maybe when he's better.

Tate only sleeps for about twenty minutes. He wakes up hard. Butch can feel it between his thighs, brushing against his own cock and making him hard too. 

“Mmm,” Tate’s purring is against Butch’s neck now. Warm vibrations of spiraling intimacy radiating out from where Tate’s lips touch Butch’s skin. Tate punctuates with a snap of his hips, grinding their erections together, though there's still Tate’s jeans and Butch’s thin boxers in the way. Didn't bother putting on pants today. Not worth the trouble. “Want you so bad, Butch.”

Tate's eyes are closed but Butch doesn't need to see them. It's just that they're close and warm and so sort of, sickly happy. Even now it doesn't feel entirely real, that they're together, again, like they didn't think they could ever be. But there weren't other options for them. Being apart, they couldn't sustain that. They’d tear apart the world again. No fucking door was gonna stop them.

Pulling himself up Butch’s body, Tate touches his lips to Butch’s, opens their mouths. Tate licks inside, feeling over Butch’s incisors. Kinda weird. They're kind of weird. Their kissing is particularly slow, unhurried. Tate pulls back.

“Want you too,” Butch murmurs. He slips his hand between their bodies, looking for Tate’s belt buckle. He opens Tate up just enough to slide his hand into Tate’s jeans, give his cock a couple of short strokes. Makes him whine real pretty. Tate’d deck Butch for using that word, ‘pretty.’ Well, depends on the mood. 

Tate grabs at Butch’s wrist, stilling his hand before things get too far. “Let me take care of you, yeah? Since you take such good care of me?”

Butch flushes a little, because he takes shit care of Tate. He hasn't given up on trying to be better, but Tate is fucking exhausting most of the time, and reckless all of the time. And Butch broke his ankle trying to keep Tate from launching himself into a mirelurk nest. He’d been convinced that if he got in and out fast enough that they wouldn't detect him. Butch knew well enough he would have to open fire on Tate and whatever mutated monster bullshit chased him back through the memorial hallways.

“Okay, okay yeah.” Butch figures Tate’ll just suck his dick. No complaints there. Tate’s mouth is warm and wet and he does this fucking thing with his lips pulled over his teeth but it's sort of, pillowy? Butch doesn't know exactly what it is Tate does. But mostly it's how Tate opens and closes his eyes, makes it look like Butch’s cock is the best fucking thing he's ever tasted. Fuck.

Sticking both his hands into Butch’s waistband, Tate slides off Butch’s boxers, tossing them somewhere across the room. Tate's arms slide under Butch's thighs, getting his knees to bend. When Butch hisses, barely a spike of pain, Tate stops.

“Need med-x?” Tate’s hair falls over his forehead, just touching in front of his eyes.

“Nah, I'm good now.” He doesn't want Tate to think he can't take it. That a twinge of temporary pain is gonna stop them. That he needs drugs for every little thing.

“Okay.” Tate sits back on his heels, curling himself up on half of the couch. He leans forward to take the tip of Butch’s cock into his mouth. On each bob of his head he inches more until his hair swipes across Butch’s stomach, just below where his tee ends, until Tate’s nose touches Butch’s skin. Tate plants his hands on Butch’s hips, flattening his palms against the slight jut of bone. Fingers curl around after, nails biting in so Butch won't buck back up. Really though, Tate would let Butch grab at his hair, hold him down, fuck his face until he drooled everywhere. Tate likes that shit. Butch likes it too. But Tate used that word, ‘care.’ And that means something abstract. Something not that. Not the almost-fighting of their strangled adolescence. 

“Fuck, Tate.” 

Butch does grab at Tate’s hair, can't resist, holding onto a fistful but not doing anything with it. Just waiting as Tate’s lips curl again, feeling as his tongue sweeps. Tate pulls off, his lips swollen, pink. Moisture clings at the corners. Butch lets go of Tate’s hair, propping himself up on his elbows to better see. 

Tate smirks and lowers his head again, this time bypassing Butch’s cock altogether. He swipes with his tongue, broad and flat, against Butch’s hole. Butch can feel the smirk after, pressing against his inner thigh. He tries to forget how he just whined. But fuck, fuck it feels good.

“Again?” Tate’s voice is breathy, aroused. He's trying not to laugh too. Not because it's funny, but because it's good.

“Fuck yeah,” Butch doesn't even care how he sounds. That's Tate’s thing, really. Getting called ‘whore,’ or ‘slut’ or whatever. Butch just wants to feel good.

Tate laps at him again, folded up like paper on the edge of tearing. He performs with such enthusiasm, licking and nudging at Butch’s entrance, that Tate’s excitement radiates through the tips of his fingers, traveling like pulsing electricity up Butch’s torso, spilling out of Butch’s mouth with soft noises, shattering breaths. Butch strokes his cock when he remembers to, not trying to come but trying to draw the whole thing out. To lose himself in sensation.

“Let me fuck you?” Tate’s lips are moist and his dark pupils blown wide in almost as black irises. Butch can tell the difference though. Cause even when they were kids, it would happen when they fought. 

Butch laughs because fuck, fuck, if he doesn't, he's gonna come from barely anything at all like he's still eighteen though he's already past twenty, into twenty-one, going on twenty-two. Life just keeps getting faster. But this, but Tate, makes the whole thing less terrifying. More alive.

“Yeah,” Butch drops his head back against the armrest. “You do that, Nosebleed.”

Tate’s gotta get off the couch to find the lube. Butch is pretty sure there’s a bottle wedged in between the couch cushions but he can't find it easily. While Tate is up, Butch pulls off his tee, getting too hot in their house.

Theirs.

When Tate gets back from going through his pack for the lube, he's shirtless too, and his belt gone. Jeans are still there, though threatening to fall off. Butch almost changes his mind because Tate looks so fucking good. And Butch can smell fucking everything. The way Tate is still sort of sweaty-sticky from the day. And all of that, their house and Tate’s smile make him want to bury himself inside his friend. His best friend. Fuck.

Tate knows what he's doing, settling back in between Butch’s legs and spreading lube over his fingers. He warms it up too, just enough that while Butch flinches at the first finger, it's not from the cold. 

Smiling against Butch’s knee, Tate mumbles, “you're real tight.”

Butch grunts. It ain't like they don't do this that often on Butch’s account. He doesn't have hang ups about it, about Tate’s cock in his ass. Tate jokes that he does. Jokes that Butch is ‘straight’ even when he's got Tate’s cock in his mouth. Butch still corrects him too, like a chump who doesn't get the joke.

It's nice, fucking nice, to lay back and let Tate do all the work for once. At the thought, there is this twinge of embarrassment though, that Tate gets worked to the bone, literally. Exchanging favors for favors, and the toll that takes. That everyone expects Tate to be this big fucking hero. That everyone expects Tate to be someone else. Someone he can't be. And Butch doesn't want to be yet another fuck that chews Tate up, spits him out. Though that metaphor ain't right because of how Tate prefers to be handled. Like rolling over broken glass.

Tate slips in a second finger, scorching Butch with the stretch. The way Tate works him open is slow, deliberate. The blond keeps his chin perched on Butch’s bent knee. “You look so good, Butch. Wish you could see you like I see you.”

“You're better. Promise you.”

They're stupid, sentimental. All that shit. And they're barely grown. They're animating these adult bodies, have been for years, but something still ain't right. Because Butch still gets scared that he’ll wake up underground. That he’s really still living in a world where he’s never seen the stars. And that he never told Tate that he loved him.

“I love you.”

Even after Butch started, Tate would never say it back.

“I love you too.”

But now he does.

Tate pulls his fingers out, shucking his jeans and slicking his cock with lube before settling back between Butch’s legs. Shoulda used that third finger too. Tate might not need it, but Butch kinda thinks he might. But he also should have known that Tate would go slow, the head of his cock pressing at Butch’s hole. 

“I'm gonna spread your legs more, okay?” Tate’s calm like this. Even. Like the frantic part of him is subsumed. It's almost scary, like it's gonna come up for air. But Butch has gotta trust Tate.

“Yeah.” Butch lets his eyes close.

Tate breaches him, pressing a hand flat to Butch’s stomach as he eases in. His hips rock, forward, forward, as Butch relaxes. Butch didn't even realize his hands were in fists. He lets go. Instead, he reaches for Tate’s shoulders as he gets closer, at Tate covers Butch’s body with his own. The overlap isn't complete, because even with all the extra muscle cording his shoulders, arms, back, Tate’s always gonna be narrow. Can't change that.

All the way inside, Tate starts breathing regular again. His eyes open up; so do Butch’s.

“I'm okay,” Butch assures.

“Fuck,” Tate looks away, then back again, “I'm not. Your dumb ass is gonna make me come too soon.”

This would be a terrible time to laugh, but Butch does anyway.

“It's not funny,” Tate snaps.

Once they’re both ready, Tate starts moving, pulling away and rolling back into Butch. He plants his arms on either side of Butch’s head, letting his wrists brush against Butch’s hair. This isn't so funny anymore. It's just good, the edge of pain dissipating out, retreating into almost nothingness. It's just heat and pressure, Tate breathing into Butch’s ear, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” Can't be quiet, even now. But for all the desperation in Tate’s voice, he keeps his strokes measured, rocking.

Butch takes his own cock in hand, trying to keep the pace Tate sets. Trying to pull himself apart, in two directions at the same time. Tate goes in, Butch pulls himself back out. Like tides. Yeah, something like that. When Tate speeds up, so does Butch, but he overshoots, warmth foaming over his abdomen. Butch gets wound so tight he clamps down, coming in his hand, between their bodies. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Tate stutters, forgets to be careful, and slams into Butch full force until he's coming too, all erratic and short of breath. His balls slapping against Butch’s ass way too loud to be real. Has to be imaginary.

But Butch knows for sure he's breathed air that isn't recycled. Sometimes things are new. Even the new can be fractured.

Tate’s arms shake. Pulling out, he flops onto Butch’s chest, unconcerned with sweat and cum and salt. Kissing at Butch’s neck, he says he's sorry. Butch asks him what for?

“You're gonna bruise.”

“Like I ever cared about that, Tate. You've been bruising me for twenty years. It's one of the things I love about you.” He wraps his arms around Tate’s back, keeping their bodies flush. Without thinking, he kisses the top of Tate’s hair, where the roots come through. “Thought the feeling was mutual?”

“We’ll be sixty and I'll still fight you.”

“I'm sure you will.”

If they live that long, Butch will hold Tate to that.


	8. Amnesia AU - Chapter 4

Butch gets Tate seated at the shittiest table in the place, this way Nova won't get mad about him taking up space for three hours while just drinking cola and watching the other patrons go by. Tate assures him he’ll be fine and slumps against the black-painted pillar. It's just nice to get out of the apartment. Butch knows full well he can't keep Tate locked up. Where he’ll be safe. With his Tate that would be flirting with disaster. This one, well, he can't expect anyone just to spend all day in a run down studio with a laptop and no internet.

“I'll only be a few hours, okay? Just ask Nova or Gob if you need anything.” Without thinking, he puts his hand at the back of Tate’s neck to pull him forward and kiss his forehead. Butch gets a mouth full of dark hair, but he doesn't mind.

Tate smiles at Butch as he leaves, mouthing “I'm fine.”

But that's the thing. Tate's not fine. Tate's not Tate. 

Butch goes about busing tables, picking up glassware and the little plates used for appetizers, dumping them off in the back for the washers and smiling best he can at the people who aren't regulars. Gotta charm them fast. Nova serves fried shit and beer mostly, real bar food even though the neighborhood is getting more expensive. 

Another year or two and Butch’s apartment will cost twice as much. He only got it at the price he did because the landlord doesn't speak any English and Butch knows just enough Spanish to make it through. Should've paid better attention growing up. The landlord’s wife still calls him “the Argentine boy,” cause he's got his grandparent’s accent. 

He dwells longer at the table with the four done-up women rapidly approaching drunkenness. When they ask for fancy cocktails, things Butch can't even identify, he tells them the bartender will have them right out. Make sure to smile. Don't scowl. Don't think. One of them touches his shoulder. When he turns his back, they call him cute.

Technically, because he isn't twenty-one, he can't serve the liquor. Gob’s gotta do it, but he's always been good about making sure Butch gets a fair share when he puts the effort in. He hates to think it, but the tips might be better if he served the drinks instead of Gob. Or maybe the ghoul bartender is part of the women’s great big adventure in this part of town. Whatever.

Half-way through his shift, Butch brings Tate a basket of fries, even though he didn't ask for anything. His cola is dry too, just scraps of ice melting at the bottom of the glass. Butch doesn't bother to scold him, tell’em he should have just asked for more at the bar. With his couple minutes break, Butch gets two colas from Nova and slides into the rickety bar stool across from Tate. Tate’s already doused the fries with both ketchup and mustard. Butch tries, unsuccessfully, to not make a big deal about it.

“You always did that.” Butch picks around in the fry basket trying to find a couple without mustard.

“Did what?” Tate’s nearly-black eyes catch one of the blue lights circling the floor. Makes him look otherworldly. The blue is in his hair too.

Butch gestures to the fries. “Ketchup and mustard. And uh,” Butch looks around at the other tables, spotting a bottle of Tabasco and leaning over to grab it. “This too.”

Turning the bottle over and over in his hands, Tate appraises the hot sauce. “Yeah.” 

Butch’s stomach is filled with knotted weights he can't work loose. Like he fucked up again. Tate's fingers tighten around the fat part of the bottle, his knuckles turning white. “I'm such a fuckup.”

This time, Butch knows better than to let his mood soar. Because even though his Tate would say that all the damn time, this still isn't his Tate. Because his hands are shaking and he won't look up, hair still covering his face.

“You're not.” Tate’s never believed him. Sometimes Butch would say Tate wasn't fucked up. Sometimes he would say Tate was. Either way, Tate never cared what response Butch gave. Didn't give a shit.

“Why can I remember dumb shit like this. Like, the fucking stuff I put on my fries. But I can't remember you?”

Butch doesn't have an answer. His break is over too. Tate doesn't cry, but he does push around the remaining food like he doesn't give a shit. Butch wants to kiss him again before he goes back to work, even though his breath will stink of mustard and chillies. He does kiss Tate, and it is kind of gross. But it's worth it for the way Tate touches his arm as he pulls away.

This is something he's gotta give up. This idea of making Tate right. Of getting his Tate back. It’ll drive Butch mad, waiting for a moment that isn't coming. A light at the end of a tunnel. And it's selfish too because Tate isn't in the tunnel anymore. He's already come out the other side. Into a world that is both familiar and strange. Where he's got no one but Butch. Maybe this Li person out there somewhere but she hasn't shown her damn face. Just letters that Butch pulled out of the Zhang’s mailbox a couple of times while Tate was still out. So fuck her too.

At the end of the night Butch has gotta wait for Gob and Nova to divide up tips. He sits with Tate because they’ll be awhile yet, having to account for everything and mark it down. Butch drinks from Tate’s cola rather than getting one for himself. Idly they talk about Tate taking the GED some more.

“I should help more,” Tate bites his lip.

Butch shakes his head, “you don't gotta help any. But you should get your diploma. You're smart and all.”

“You're smart too.” That's familiar. A repeated line. And it doesn't sound parroted.

Nova breezes by, dropping two twenties and a ten for Butch. Not terrible, given Butch was sort of late and all. He gives twenty of it to Tate. 

“If you wanna like, go out and do stuff tomorrow.” Because, really really, as much as he wants to keep Tate to himself, he can't. And the only thing worse than Tate going out by himself would be Tate going out by himself with no money and trying to barter. He ends up giving Tate the ten too.

Butch plans to use the other twenty and some other money he has left over from groceries to buy Tate the books he’ll need for the exam. Once Tate thinks he’s ready Butch will have to come up with the money for the test itself but it's not too expensive. Butch finishes off Tate’s cola before they head out.

As they walk back to Butch’s house Tate sticks his hand into Butch’s, twining their fingers together and squeezing. The sleeves of Butch’s hoodie otherwise cover Tate’s hands. But it's big on Butch too, so he can layer the hoodie on over other stuff when it gets colder.

It's hard, really fucking hard not to just pin Tate to the side of the nearest building, kiss him until they're both sore and aching and filled with too much lust. That's how they ended up together, sort of together, before Tate’s accident. Too much chemistry, good and bad, and not enough space between them. 

He makes sure Tate gets up the stairs first, keeping his hand on the small of Tate’s back as the ascend. In the morning Butch is supposed to be at the salon at eight to open up. It's just past midnight now.

When he takes the sweatshirt off, Tate noticeably shivers in his tee. Butch turns the black-box furnace in the center of the wall up two degrees. He's not entirely convinced that the dial does anything. 

They brush their teeth, get into bed. Butch isn't sure he should've. Like, maybe in accepting his Tate is gone, he should snap apart whatever it is they've been building towards. He should let Tate make his own decisions about who to fuck and not fuck rather than keep this quasi-Stockholm holding pattern. Eventually, Butch’ll run out of gas. Crash and burn.

So Butch lies down with his back to Tate instead of curling their bodies together. Tate doesn't move for a long while, laying flat on his back. They went to bed in sweatpants because yeah, the temperature is dropping rapidly and the windows leak heat.

“Butch?” Tate knows well enough Butch ain't sleeping.

“Yeah, Tate.”

“Are you mad at me?”

Butch rolls onto his back, knocking their shoulders together.

“Nah.”

“It's cold.”

“Yeah.” Really fucking shouldn't, but Butch rolls onto his side, folding Tate’s body into his. Tate’s breath is hot against the fabric of Butch’s shirt.

There's no hesitation on Tate’s part, slipping his cold, bony hand into Butch’s pants to stroke his cock. Tate’s breaths get heavy and his cock hard. Butch groans into Tate’s hair.

“You don't gotta.” He doesn't. Tate doesn't owe him anything.

The lips at Butch’s neck do about as much for him as the hand on his cock. The sort of licking, biting, sucking rhythm Tate adopts. Tearing and soothing in turn. And the way he gasps when he pulls back, “wanna.”

“Really,” Butch half-whines because he's so fucking aroused from the way Tate’s grinding against his leg, spreading his thighs too and trying to pull Butch in. “This ain't, if you don't. I don't expect.”

Tate growls and for a second Butch thinks Tate’s finally going to hit him. Finally. But he doesn't. Does pull back his hand though. Reaching over Butch, Tate flicks back on the desk lamp sitting on Butch’s side of the mattress.

“Let me show you something, asshole.” Fuck, fuck, it sounds like him. 

Tate kneels on the mattress, tearing off his shirt first. Butch stares at the lean muscle, less bulky than Tate was before the accident, but still defined all across his chest and abdomen. He slides out of his sweatpants next. Butch’s eyes go wide. He's not wearing loose boxers like normal, but these fucking tight as hell bright blue briefs with shocking pink trim around the waistband. They cling to his body, the start of his erection clearly visible through the stretchy fabric.

“I found these,” Tate breathes heavily, “in the back of my sock drawer at my father’s house.” He crawls forward until he's straddling Butch, one leg on either side of him and his back arched. Butch can't help but touch, running his fingers over Tate’s chest. He's goose fleshed from the cold. “And I can't fucking remember buying them or why. But when I saw them, all I could think about was wearing them for you. Watching your face when you saw them. Having you pull them down and sticking your cock in me.”

Butch hisses because fuck, fuck. How is he even supposed to respond to that? He bucks up, his crotch brushing against Tate’s.

“So don't worry, Butch. I want you. I can't remember you, but I want you so fucking much it hurts.”

Butch nods, “okay, okay.” And slips his hands into the waistband of Tate’s briefs. The elastic stretches around his wrist. Butch can see clearly the outline of his hand wrapped around Tate’s dick.

As Butch works him, Tate drops his head forward, hair brushing against Butch’s shirt. Overdressed, but not wanting to let go of Tate, Butch grunts in frustration. He tries to grind up, in between Tate’s spread thighs, easing out what fiction he can.

“Fuck, shit. Just fuck me already, Butch.” 

Well, shit. That gets Butch about as hard as anything. Wanting to flip Tate over, pin him down, make him writhe and scream Butch’s name. But he can't, he can't because he's never done this before. Not with Tate, not with anyone. Like, even before, Tate thought he had done it with girls. But he hadn't. He'd lied so, he doesn't know, Tate would think he was experienced or something. Shit.

“Stay on your hands and knees, okay?”

In response Tate nods, looking a little disappointed when Butch pulls his hand away. Butch is sort of disappointed too because he wanted to watch Tate come apart in his hands. He wants to see Tate’s face.

Butch crawls behind Tate, trying to keep his breath even. He does not, does not, want Nosebleed to think he's afraid, even if Tate wouldn't care. Sliding his hands back into Tate’s waistband, he pulls the briefs down, not all the way off though, the neon looks too good on Tate, so Butch just slides them down until they tuck under the curve of Tate’s ass. Bringing one hand down, he smacks Tate’s ass. It barely moves but the sound, Tate’s moan, fuck.

Butch wants, he wants, fuck it. Reaching forward he pulls Tate apart. In the lamplight he can see everything, even if it's cast in shadow. Gotta stop thinking so hard. Butch was never good at thinking. He presses his tongue to Tate, licking in between his cheeks, first in broad, slow strokes. Starting from the juncture of fabric and flesh and moving up to Tate’s back. When Tate shivers, whines in response, he does it again.

Part of Butch wants desperately to ask if this is okay, if he's doing okay, if Tate likes this? But Tate probably doesn't want to answer Butch’s endless stream of questions, provide constant affirmation. Tate’s hard and loud. That should be enough.

“Shit,” Tate gasps when Butch moves faster this time, licking, sucking, pushing the barest tip of his tongue inside. Tate starts bucking forward, nearly toppling over. Butch wraps his arms around Tate’s waist to keep him on his knees rather than flat on his stomach.

“Touch yourself, yeah? Okay?”

“Hnnng.” Tate listens though, taking himself in hand and stroking. The tight briefs are kind of a hindrance now, trapping Tate’s hand as he tries to get himself off. Butch goes back to licking, trying to make Tate shatter.

Butch likes this. He likes all of this. The closeness between them, the fucking way Tate can't shut up even if he's not really making it all the way into words. The thud of his own heart loud in his ears as Tate whines, “Fuck, fuck, gonna come.” Butch can feel it in Tate’s stomach, the way he gets all tense and hard. How he doesn't support his own weight anymore, trying to flop forward in the bed. Butch pulls back, trying to bundle Tate against his chest. They fit with some maneuvering. Tate’s still breathing heavy, his hand coated in cum.

Butch doesn't say anything at first. He puts his hands on either side of Tate’s ribs to feel him breathe.

Even though Butch isn't Tate’s next-of-kin, he was the one who had to identify Tate. To say for sure the crumpled body on the lab floor was Tate Zhang, age 17. Son of James Zhang, deceased. Son of Catherine White-Zhang, deceased. And Butch DeLoria was no one. Just a classmate who the principal knew went to Tate’s house after lessons let out. “They seemed close.”

“Butch,” Tate finds his voice before Butch does.

“Yeah.”

“You didn't, I mean, you could still fuck me. I told you. I want you.”

“Tate…”

“I bet it would be easy now. I'm all relaxed. And I feel sort of...open. Like. If you put lube on your cock, and sort of stretched me more, with your fingers.”

Butch breathes a sigh of relief. Even this Tate knows better than him how to run the show, even if he is the one about to get fucked in the ass.

“Okay, alright. I gotta get the bottle.”

Tate nods, but doesn't move. Butch has gotta push him off some to reach over to the bedside. They've been leaving the tube out in the open. Ain't like anyone else comes over. Shit, wait.

“I need a condom, um, hold on.” Butch starts getting out of bed. There are probably some in his backpack, from like, shit, from before. When he thought him and Tate might. He hasn't looked at them in awhile. Hasn't wanted to.

The air in the room is cold when Butch gets out of bed, really, when he lets go of Tate. He gets the condom from the inside pocket of his bag and checks the expiry date. Two months left, okay.

“How do you want?” Butch drops his boxers before getting into bed again. 

“Wanna see you.”

“Yeah,” nothing has ever sounded sweeter, “yeah me too.”

Butch helps Tate out of those ridiculous briefs. He's kind of sad to see them go. Fuck. Dropping the condom into the sheets, Butch grabs the lube first. He coats two of his fingers. Tate lays on his back, legs spread around Butch, even though Butch is still sitting back.

“Gonna put my finger in now, okay?”

Tate nods. His eyes stay open as Butch slides his finger in. Tate was right, of course he was, the first finger is easy. Butch pumps him slow at first, making sure the finger slides smooth before slotting a second next to it. He can feel Tate stretch around him now and he nearly gets so scared he thinks about pulling out. But Tate’s eyes are still open, unafraid. He's beautiful.

Butch tests spreading his fingers apart, listening for any discomfort because Tate is just the type of dickhead that would be in excruciating pain and not breathe a word if it stops him from getting what he wants. Butch doesn't know if he's done enough, but he's so fucking hard that it hurts between his legs. Like he's gotta get inside Tate now or he's gonna die.

“Okay, I'm gonna try it with my cock now.”

Tate just groans, finally closing his eyes. 

Butch’s hand is slippery and he struggles with the condom wrapper. Fuck. The foil tears open. How he gets it on with his hands shaking so bad, he doesn't know. But it rolls on and it's good, they're good. He slicks more lube over top the condom just to make sure.

They figure out together where Tate’s legs are supposed to go, ending up with one on each of Butch’s shoulders. Butch pushes in and Tate’s tight, way tighter than he was around Butch’s fingers. Fuck. But Butch swears he can feel Tate’s heartbeat. He can feel the way it speeds up for him.

Butch doesn't quite get all the way in before pulling back. He thrusts forward again and gets a little closer to sheathing himself. Tate does this thing, this fucking thing and he may not even realize, as he rolls his hips up to meet Butch’s and everything is over too fast. Butch pants and comes before he's even really started. Cursing himself, Butch hangs his head. Tate kisses the inside of his arm.

“Fuck,” Butch pulls out, embarrassed with himself. He rolls off the condom, tying it at the end, refusing to meet Tate’s eyes. It's just, there was so much lead up. And Tate looked so good, felt even better.

“Butch?”

He doesn't answer at first, getting up to toss the condom in the trash.

“Butch?”

Turning, Butch sees Tate in bed, the sheets half pulled around him, eyes open and catching the light. His hair sticks up sort of weirdly. Butch feels terrible. Like he failed. Again.

“I'm cold, Butch.”

“Yeah.” He's cold too.

Butch turns off the light before getting back into bed. Tate curls up against him again, one hand pressed to Butch’s chest.

“It's kind of flattering,” Tate laughs against Butch’s skin.

“Aw, shut up.”

“But I'm still glad. We’ll have to do it over, and over again.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Want you to wreck me so bad I can't walk for a week.”

Butch’s heart nearly stops.

Somehow, though it's fucking embarrassing, Butch wants to confess. “I ain't never done that before.”

“You told me.”

“Nah, I said, I said we hadn't done it before. But like, I lied to you. Before the accident I lied to you. Said I'd done it with girls. I hadn't. Just didn't want you to know I hadn't.” Butch pauses, “you're my first.” He manages to stop before saying ‘my only.’

“What about me?” Tate asks. “Had I done it? With other people?”

Butch tangles his hand in the back of Tate’s hair. He sure hopes Tate hadn't, because he would knife anyone anywhere near his Tate, given half the chance. But he doesn't know. And that tears him up, like, really shreds him. “I don't know.” Butch swallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos very much appreciated. particularly if you want more of this specific au, but other ideas too.


	9. Amnesia AU Chapter 5

The bus ride to the clinic is fucked. Tate sits half in Butch’s lap because of how cramped the aisle is. Ten minutes into the ride, they have to stand up to let some old broad take their seat. Butch tells Tate he can still sit if he wants to, but if Butch has to stand, Tate will too and a girl with big headphones over her ears and winged eyeliner that could cut glass squeezes into the empty seat.

For the rest of the ride Butch holds onto the bar overhead for stability. Tate doesn't have to, being able to seamlessly shift his weight with the movement of the bus. But he stands so they're chest to chest, his nose buried at Butch’s neck. People stare, but Butch doesn't fucking care. He spent the last year of high school fucking caring and then he almost lost Tate. He wraps his free arm around Tate’s waist to hold him in place.

The clinic is further away than ideal, but it's covered by Tate’s insurance and it's the one the doctors recommended. Butch ain't got the time to find one closer and the bus costs the same no matter the distance, so whatever. Tate didn't even want to come. All they’ll do is make him talk. He's got nothing to talk about because he still can't remember how he ended up on the floor of his dad's lab. He can't remember his dad either.

They sit together in the musty waiting room. The chairs are upholstered in pilled, faded maroon fabric with these lines of blue thread woven through and wooden arm rests. They're fucking ugly as hell and even though it's a therapist’s office and not one for like, sick people, Butch thinks the place smells like sick.

Tate bounces his leg. Their hands are twined together on the armrest, Butch’s fingers between Tate's.

“I don't want to go without you,” Tate says.

“I'm not allowed.” Butch twists their hands on the armrest so Tate’s is palm up. He uncurls his fingers and presses their hands flat together before lifting his up, then smacking it back down onto Tate’s open palm. When he goes to do it again, Tate slides his hand out at the last second, causing Butch just to smack into armrest. Fucker.

Tate pushes his hair out of his eyes. “But I can tell them, right? That I want you there?”

Butch sighs, “I don't think it's a good idea. I mean, like, they might ask you questions.” Now his leg is bouncing too.

“Woooow,” Tate mocks, “the therapist might ask me questions. Any other pearls of wisdom?”

Fuck. Every day he sounds more and more like himself. Like the underlying fiber of Tate is still there. The anger and exuberance and fucking insanity that kept pushing them apart when really all they wanted to do was climb inside each other. But Tate’s pushing back doesn't feel like it's pushing Butch away. Kind of the opposite actually.

“They might ask you questions about me. About us,” Butch explains.

“Right,” Tate slides down in his chair until his ass almost falls off.

The receptionist, who wears her bangs way too fluffy, like a tarantula on her forehead, calls Tate’s name, though she mispronounces “Zhang” which is kind of fucking bullshit because Butch looked it up once and it's like, one of the most common names on the goddamm planet. Tate slides out of his chair to disappear behind the door. He doesn't look back. Butch is thankful for that because it means he can finally breathe. He'd asked the receptionist to make sure his name isn't called until after Tate’s and even as it is he's not gonna use the full hour or anything. Although the other receptionist, the one on the phone, who whistles through her teeth when she talks, said that without insurance they can give him three free one-hour sessions. But Butch has gotta make sure he's done before Tate is.

“Butch DeLoria?” The receptionist calls. He's got half a mind to tell her to be more fucking quiet because he doesn't know if Tate will be able to hear his name from whatever room he's in. Though he supposes not, because patients aren't supposed to hear each other talk.

With his hands in the pockets of his coat, Butch walks up to the door, waiting to be let in. The receptionist walks him down the hall to one of the offices. The ends of her ash-blonde hair are really split and dry. Like, despite the terrible bangs, she hasn't had her hair cut in years. He almost says something, but that would be fucking rude.

He waits a couple minutes for the therapist to come in. On his desk there's this little gold plaque set in wood that reads “DR. GRANGER” because he's supposed to be some sort of PhD or something, not like a medical doctor, who takes on charity cases like Butch when he's not busy at the university picking apart other charity cases like Butch. And even though like, doctors or something aren't supposed to share information about patients, Butch wonders if this guy knows about Tate, and Butch is really getting these free sessions because Tate is super interesting or something.

Granger turns out to be a ghoul. White shirt, black slacks, no hair and ravaged skin. He reaches out a hand to Butch and Butch shakes it. Doesn't bother him in the slightest. If the guy is a ghoul, he could be who knows how old? He must know stuff. And it's kind of cool because he knows from Gob that a lot of ghouls have it rough but this one gets to like, teach and stuff.

“So,” Granger sets aside his clipboard on the edge of his desk. “Butch, it's nice to meet you.”

“Um, yeah,” Butch starts bouncing his leg again, not really knowing what to do. His nails dig into the armrest of the client’s chair until his knuckles turn white. 

“So, is this your first time at therapy?”

It's not. But Butch doesn't really want to admit to it. That this has never worked for him, talking. The school made him go to sessions for like two months when he was fourteen because he’d shouted some pretty terrible stuff in Tate’s face while wailing on him. And even though Tate was strong enough to fight back he fucking didn’t. He'd just laid on the shitty speckled tile floor of the school cafeteria with his eyes open while Butch hit him. But fuck, fuck, Butch had said something about how he wished they were both dead because that was the only way to fix them and because of that they made his mom send him to therapy. But all the therapist wanted to talk about was Butch’s mom out in the waiting room smelling like whiskey and dozing off. And all Butch wanted to talk about was how when he got too close to Tate and could smell his hair, he lost his fucking mind.

“No, no, but it's been awhile…”

“I understand you've gone through some pretty significant life changes in the last year?” Granger asks.

“Yeah, uh,” Butch rakes his fingers against the armrest. No one is forcing him to be here. He made this appointment himself. Because sometimes still he feels on the edge of screaming and pummeling Tate again. But he's not fourteen. He's eighteen and he's responsible for Tate being safe. So he has to talk to someone. He can't burden Tate about this because this is about Tate. “My friend...he was in a coma, for awhile. I guess you might have heard? He's in his session now. And he was like, on the news when it happened? Tate Zhang?”

Granger nods but doesn't respond otherwise.

“Well, his parents were already dead. Like even before. So I thought, yeah, sure. He’ll stay with me. I'm the only one who gave a fuck about him anyway, before...before…” The doctors all think Tate tried to kill himself that day. But Butch isn't so sure because yeah, Tate was always self-destructive. But not like that. He wasn't sad. He was angry and frustrated and too much energy. But he didn't want to die. “When he woke up though, he didn't…he doesn't remember me.”

Granger writes something down. “It's not so unusual, in cases like your friend’s. And it's a noble thing you're doing. Giving him a place to stay. Helping him.”

But that's the problem, right? It doesn't feel noble or good to Butch. It feels selfish. Because he's getting exactly what he wants. He's getting between Tate’s thighs, he's getting into Tate’s mouth. And he gets Tate’s kisses and his warm body and open eyes and lips that pant, “please, more,” in the middle of the night. And Tate keeps saying he wants all these things. But Butch still feels like shit.

He looks away from Granger. He doesn't think he can say it and see the man’s reaction. “We’re fucking. I mean,” he grips onto the armrests again. “He should have gone back to his dad’s house. Maybe, or to live with that Li person who's like, listed as his guardian or whatever. But while he was in the coma he turned 18 and...and I told him he could come live with me. And I feel like a fucking shitbag. Because this is what I wanted. I wanted him to want me. Fuck. If I didn't want it so bad, maybe everything wouldn't be so fucked.”

“My understanding of Tate’s case is he’s high functioning? Able to make decisions for himself? Otherwise, he would not have been released into you care. He would have been sent with Li?”

“Um, I don't know,” Butch turns his head to look at Granger when the doctor speaks, but just as soon looks away again. “I guess. But he doesn't remember me. Like. He doesn't know all the shitty things I did to him growing up. And he doesn't remember how it was me who didn't want people to know, that he and I were, you know. But it was him too because he was always fucking pushing me away too.”

“So you were in a relationship prior to his coma?”

“Fuck,” Butch covers his face with his hand. “I don't even fucking know what we were.” Butch looks around for a clock. He's gotta make sure he's out before Tate is. “I wanted him. Real, real bad. Not just like, the sex stuff. But also the sex stuff. But we never like, it didn't fit. We were both too angry about wanting each other.”

“And, so now you feel, what?”

“I told you,” Butch raises his voice, before realizing and calming back down. “I feel like a fucking shithead because Tate’s not the same as he was before. He doesn't have his memories and that makes this fucking easier. He doesn't punch me in the face, he doesn't pull away. And that makes it easy for me to not deck him too.”

“Do you think it's supposed to be difficult?”

Butch isn't sure. But he does know he's running out of fucking time. “Um. I don't know. I don't. I'll like, think about it. I guess?”

“Is there anything I could do for you now?” Granger asks, writing on his clipboard again.

“Not unless...nah, nothing. But I might try and come back, yeah? When Tate has his next appointment. They said I could have two more sessions? And I want...I want to try and be a better man. Because maybe then, I won't feel like...like this.” He's lost all semblance of articulation.

“Yes, of course,” Granger assures. “And I can try and see if we can arrange something for more sessions, should you need them?”

Butch shrugs before ducking out.

His heart doesn't stop racing until his plonks himself back down in the same waiting room chair he was before. He pulls out his shitty phone and starts scrolling through archived messages. The most recent ones are all from his ma. Asking how he is, if he's safe, if he could send money? Sometimes he responds with one-word answers. Further back, there are a bunch of them from before Tate’s accident. 

\--

tate what happened  
tate my mom said something about your dad  
on the news  
tate?

hes dead

do u want me to come over

no the police just left  
im tired

\--

my dads not home yet  
fuck you fine, don't come over

dont be such a bitch nosebleed

are you coming or not

this is so fucking stupid

fine dont come

im outside ur house

\--

i hate you

then stop sending me texts

\--

Tate comes back out from his appointment, hands shoved into his back pockets. Butch mumbles about needing to double check that all the payment is handled. The receptionist says Tate has to sign his own form for services. She's fucking exposed him. Butch scratches his name on his form. Like she couldn't fucking tell him before Tate came out of his session, fuck.

Silently, Tate signs his form too. They don't talk until they're out of the office and back in the street. Butch kind of wants to run all the way back home. Just leave Tate in the dust. Maybe not even run home, just abandon everything. 

“Is it because of me?” Tate asks.

“Naw. I mean, you're part of it, but naw. It's just good for me.”

Tate nods. They hold hands waiting for the bus. Tate’s hand gets really sweaty but Butch refuses to let go.

The bus ride back isn't nearly as cramped. It's past seven now. Most people are home with their families, eating dinner, watching tv. They've got a tin of black beans in the pantry and some bacon in the fridge. That’ll be enough. Butch’ll sort of mash them together while Tate sits on the edge of the counter because they don't own any chairs. Butch will tell Tate about inane shit from work, like the woman who had a damn bald patch on the side of her head because she fucked up the developer in a home dye kit. And Tate will pretend he's interested because maybe he cares about Butch.

But on the bus, Tate lets his head rest on Butch’s shoulder, keeping their hands bound together across Butch’s lap. He still smells fucking infuriating. Like sweat and lemon soap. 

“I think I remembered something, today,” Tate squeezes Butch’s hand.

“Yeah?” Butch is past getting his hopes up. 

“The therapist asked me about my medications? And I told her that I wasn't taking any. And then she started talking about how I was supposed to be on this thing. And this other thing. But they weren't sure now which ones I needed. But, then I remembered. I was sick before.”

“Yeah.”

“But they're not sure I'm sick now.”

“Yeah, I guess. I don't know.” Really, Butch could never figure how it was that Tate was sick and he wasn't sick. Because, sure Tate got angrier sometimes, and weirder. But like, other times he was just the same as Butch. 

“But I remembered, going to this building. And it was dark outside. I was in my sweats. And I was yelling up at this window. Throwing shit at it.”

Butch swallows. He remembers this too. “Yeah.”

“I can't remember who it was I was yelling at. But I was so...I don't know. And I couldn't sleep. So I went to this building and screamed.” Tate shifts his weight against Butch’s side. 

The bus has stopped to let passengers on. A woman with two little kids. One who runs right out of her grip once he's in the bus.

“Was it your window, Butch?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it weird that I'm glad? I'm glad I was a fucking freak in front of you?”

“No, Tate, it's not weird.”


	10. Amnesia AU - chapter 6

Tate squeezes his thighs tight around Butch’s hips. His hands planted firmly against Butch’s chest as he rises and falls in slow strokes. Butch tries to think about things that aren't the way Tate’s ass feels smacking back down against his pelvis. Or how fucking tight his hole is around Butch’s cock. The ridges of his abdomen, or the way his fingers start to curl, nails biting into Butch’s chest. He tries to think of anything that will make him last a little longer.

Butch wraps his arms around Tate’s waist, holding onto his back, feeling skin slide under his fingers, feeling the tension of Tate’s spine as his back arches. Fuck. He's too good at this. He's too hot with this mewling noises, though Butch is pretty sure Tate doesn't know he's actually making noise, it's hot as fuck.

“Fuck, Butch, fuck me, oh.”

Butch screws his eyes shut, trying not to look. But he can't blot out the sounds too. Can't cover his ears because his hands are just glued to the sticky surface of Tate’s sweaty skin.

“Your cock feels so fucking good,” Tate’s breath hitches.

“Fuck, Nosebleed.”

He doesn't mean to call Tate that. He really doesn't. Because to this Tate, it must sound weird, he's got no context. But Butch thought about this, before, of course he did. Of what it would be like to fuck Tate, get fucked by him, when they were only barely bold enough to use their mouths.

Dropping his hands lower, to Tate’s hips, Butch starts guiding him more, pulling Tate down more harshly on his cock, slamming their hips together. He'd wanted to make it last, and it has lasted, longer than last time or the time before. But there's that possessive snap inside of him, the one that just wants to, fuck, fill Tate up with his cum and demand that Tate never leave him again, ever. That he’ll stay just in place and never even look at another fucking guy. Impossible things. Because they're eighteen and fucking bullshit fairy tales where two people stay together aren't real. They're not. Butch isn't stupid enough to believe.

But he flips them over, so Tate’s back hits the mattress and Butch is over top of him. Tate’s eyes light up, his mouth opening as Butch thrusts into him as fiercely as he can manage. He can't really cum into Tate because he's got the condom on but he can imagine. Grabbing hold of Tate’s hair with one hand, he wrenches his head to one side against the pillow.

“Fuck fuck, fuck,” Tate chants, the pitch of his voice rising on each stroke. The sheets slide from the mattress 

“Don't leave me, don't leave me, Tate, please, please don't go.” He's talking nonsense.

“Won't, won't, please.”

There's a wetness between their bodies. Butch realizes Tate has managed to come. Fuck. That's hot as fucking, shit. The way Tate tightens up around his cock. Butch smashes their mouths together, trying to invade Tate, swallow him up and keep him there. Whispers through the heat in his stomach and the force of his shuddering orgasm, because he has this weird feeling. Like this could have gone some other, terrible way. He tastes blood in his mouth and realizes it's Tate. His lip broken by the force of their kiss.

“Butch,” Tate’s fingers are against his cheeks. He looks mournfully sad. “You called me Nosebleed?”

“I'm sorry.” He kisses Tate’s sweaty forehead. He's gotta pull out. Get rid of the condom. But right now he doesn't feel like he can move.

“You used to call me that, I know.”

“Yeah.” The pads of Tate’s fingers pressing against his face are so soft. Too gentle to be real.

“Did you love me, then?”

Butch can't keep deflecting the answer forever. Tate just keeps on asking. Like it's real important to him whatever response Butch has got.

But it's this giant thing. Because this never came up with Tate before his accident. They never said nothing one way or the other about how they felt. Or what was going on or who they were to themselves or each other or, fuck. Butch’s stomach gets real tight and it feels like his throat is closing down. Part of him wants to scream at Tate to get out. To go back to his dad’s empty house if he isn't happy here. But Tate’s never said that he isn't happy here. Just Butch feels like he's going to pass out.

When he's with Tate, the whole fucking world seems so small. Like on the head of a pin small.

His voice cracks, “I still do.”

That Tate says nothing at all is sort of worse. Sort of worse than anything Butch could imagine, because it's exactly what he did imagine. He can at least sort of console himself with the fact he’ll never know what Tate thought of him before.

\--

They go grocery shopping together, though Butch tells Tate they gotta stick to what's on the list. It's cheap stuff that comes in volume and is easy to cook. Rice, tins of beans, canned vegetables, bacon, which isn't really cheap exactly but like hell they're going without it. Tate keeps his hands stuffed in the front pocket of Butch’s hoodie while the walk the aisles. At least they're out of the apartment, doing something other than Tate waiting around while Butch works, or going to therapy. So, it's a start.

“Do you want anything?” Butch hates asking Tate that like he's a child or something. But like, he has a little bit of money left over if he really wants something in particular. And Butch wants to get it for him, if he can. Tate ends up pulling an off-brand box of sugary cereal. Neither of them mention that there isn't enough money left over for milk. 

They still have to go to the pharmacy section. Butch tries to act like he's not embarrassed to buy condoms. Because it's not fucking embarrassing, right? It's like, he's having sex and that's not at all embarrassing. That's awesome. He drops the pack of twelve into the cart even though the pack of twenty-four is cheaper per condom. But like, he kind of also doesn't want to act presumptuous about fucking Tate twenty-four more times. Fucking hell. And also, even if they put back Tate’s box of cheap cereal he can't afford the twenty-four pack anyway so fuck it.

While the cashier scans their shit, Tate holds Butch’s hand. Butch wonders about asking Clover if she could swipe a bunch of those free condoms that sit out in bowls on her campus but he really hasn't talked to her since graduation and what a weird fucking question.

Before they're done cashing out, Tate stretches up and kisses the side of Butch’s neck quickly. So fucking quick Butch thinks maybe he imagined it. He focuses on watching their shit pass by on the belt before handing everything he's got to the pony-tailed girl with braces working the scanner.

Tate takes one bag and Butch takes the other so they can keep holding hands on the way to the bus stop. Only then does Butch realize. “You were doing that on purpose.”

“What?” Tate smiles. It fucking was on purpose.

“You were showing off in front of the cashier. Because we were buying condoms.”

“She was eyeballing you,” Tate argues. She wasn't, though.

Butch nearly shouts, “You're the one strange men are always making eyes at.”

“But you're straight, right?”

Butch stops dead in his tracks. Tate keeps walking, breaking their hands apart.

“Did all those drugs you fucking took ruin your vocabulary too?” Butch winces, he shouldn't have phrased it like that.

Tate turns around. “What, but like, you are, right?”

He wants to fucking tackle Tate to the ground. Punch his fucking face in. Hit him until he hits back. Because this isn't Tate. This is a body, animated by an echo. But it keeps speaking the same words.

“What part about you and me, having sex, makes you think I'm straight?”

Tate thinks about that, honest to fucking hell thinks about it. Like the question is a strange one. “What does make me think that? Oh, that's weird.” He puts his hand to his mouth.

Butch has to really fucking resist to tell Tate why that is. That they've had this conversation before, but Tate never believed him.

“I think…” Tate continues, “that I'm an exception.” He concentrates on his next words. “That you're straight. But I'm different. Because,” shaking his head, Tate stops.

“Please,” Butch says, “tell me why?” He's always had assumptions, but never the truth.

“Because I'm ‘the girl.’ I'm ‘your girl.’ So what does it matter if I have a cock?” Tate’s not looking at him anymore. “Being with me doesn't change that you're straight.”

Butch puts the shopping bag down in the grass. They can catch the next bus. It's okay. He's not sure how he should hold Tate, or if he even should. “You're a fucking idiot. You know that?” He kisses Tate, holding the back of his head, letting black hair slip through his fingers.

“Why am I an idiot?” He doesn't sound angry, if anything, he's amused. He wants Butch to say it out loud.

“You want me to fucking say it again?”

“Yes,” Tate bites the tip of his own tongue. 

Butch doesn't know how to be eloquent. “Because, um, first, I'm not fucking straight, okay? But you're sort of right. But for the wrong reasons. You're mine. But I don't think of you as ‘my girl,’ or anything. I'm not that...fucking fragile. I'm not gonna like, be embarrassed about this anymore. About us, if you're not gonna hide it, I'm not either.”

“Did I hide it, before?” Of course, Tate doesn't know.

“I guess...I guess we both did. We were angrier then. About everything.”

“I guess I really was an idiot,” Tate laughs.

“Yeah...hey, what does that mean?”

“Look at you, fuck,” Tate smiles. “How could I not want everyone to know?”

“Tate...we weren't exactly friends,” Butch has been edging around this truth for awhile too. 

“But, you were there when I woke up, and the pictures we took,” his eyes narrow, “what do you mean we weren't friends?”

Butch groans, he doesn't want to talk about this. “Far as anybody at school knew, we were fucking enemies, okay? We were always beating the shit out of each other and getting in trouble and, fuck. We’d fucking scream in each other's faces. Only sometimes we’d crawl back to your dad’s and make out without ever fucking talking about it, okay?”

“Butch…”

“You wanna know why I called you Nosebleed?” He's all riled up now, and Tate’s not angry, no. He's just looking back at Butch like he's the one that's fucking broken. And it's so fucking aggravating. Tate’s pity is the worst, the fucking worst. Butch feels like he's shriveling from the inside out. And he's gotta stop it before it shows on his skin.

Butch winds his fist back. Punches Tate in the face.

“FUCK!” Tate falls to the floor, clutching his hands to his face. But he doesn't cry or sob, just holds his head in his hands while crouched down in the grass. When he pulls his hands back, both he and Butch can see they're covered in blood.

“That's why. Oh, fuck.” Butch doesn't know what to do. Because Tate isn't wailing on him. He's not fighting back and he doesn't even look angry. He's just staring at the blood on his hands. “I'm sorry, fuck, I'm sorry,” Butch pulls his keys from his front pocket, dropping them into the grass at Tate’s feet. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Butch?”

He doesn't wait. Butch just runs.


	11. Tate/Weiss AU NSFW thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU (not the amnesia timeline) where Tate has sex with my Sole Survivor *shrugs* rough sex, oral, choking, dirty talk, infidelity, underage drinking, age difference (18 and 34, but the older party thinks the younger is 21+) some D/s elements

The ID works, though Tate’s heart's still pounding out of his chest even after the bouncer waves him through. Inside the club is dark enough that no one else is gonna question whether or not he's really twenty-two. Because of course he's not, he's eighteen and has school in the morning but he heard somewhere that the bars are more lax about scrutinizing everyone on weekdays and he just wanted to see. Really. Because at school he feels so fucking isolated like, with no one to talk to and he's gotta pretend he's someone he's not but everyone still whispers behind his back. Except for Butch who at least says it to his face that Tate is fucked up.

And the ID? It's not even fake. It's just not his either. It's Andrew Wei’s from dad’s church, but Andy said that the white bouncers are usually too chicken-shit to call out the picture if it looks a little wrong and even if they do you can bark back something about their being racist and still get away with it. Tate sticks the ID into his back pocket and tries to remember his name is Andrew.

At the bar he orders beer because it seems the safest thing to get. He curls his feet around the legs of the barstool. Tries to keep his hands from shaking because that’ll give the whole game away. The place isn't like, crowded-crowded. But it's a Thursday so that's to be expected, right? People have work in the morning. And he has a calculus final that he’ll fail either way, unless he can convince Butch to let him suck his dick for the answers. Yeah, that's maybe a fantasy Tate’s got recently on repeat during his jack-off sessions because it includes two things that are never gonna happen, sucking Butch’s dick again and passing calc. Last time Butch let him, Tate was fucking terrible at it. Butch was so, so good though. Tate was crawling out of his fucking skin and he felt like he was gonna die when he hit his orgasm. But then the next day Butch pushed him into a locker and screamed in his face and then they both got suspended for three days.

So Tate’s sneaking into this bar that takes two buses from his house to even get to, on a Thursday night because on the internet he read it's a gay bar. But he's too nervous to even really look around so he just folds his hands in his lap and waits for his beer to come around. 

“I'll get that for him,” Tate can't even look at the man who said that. But he sure as hell is gonna let this guy pay for his drinks if he wants to. He's not even sure it matters what the guy looks like because now maybe he can have enough beers so that he won't feel so embarrassed to be here.

“Thanks.” Working his way up to it, Tate swivels the barstool around so he's facing the guy’s stomach. And fuck, fuck, he's lean and impossible tall. Tate’s gotta tilt his head up real far before he even gets to the guy’s face. He's smiling and seriously handsome as sin and Tate’s stomach starts flipping right away. But it's fucking terrifying too because Tate ain't got an excuse that the guy is ugly or nothing to fall back on.

“I'll take one too,” the stranger tells the bartender. 

Beers cost four-fifty each but the guy hands the barkeep a twenty and tells him not to worry. He smells like...expensive too. Some sort of weird combination cologne instead of that body spray stuff all the guys in school just douse themselves in. But not Butch because Butch wears this sharp smelling aftershave that makes Tate feel like he's gonna die.

“I'm Weiss,” Weiss sticks out his hand for Tate to shake. It feels kind of funny because like, context-wise Tate is like, ninety-eight percent sure this guy is trying to pick him up and Tate is ninety-nine percent sure he's gonna let him. Because, fuck, the scrape of Weiss’ dark stubble over his cheekbones looks like something out of a fucking porno. Like, all the really toppy guys in the vids look like that? And Tate’s head is sort of spinning. 

“Ta-Andrew,” Tate shakes Weiss’ hand. He wonders if he should have said Wei instead because he's pretty sure Weiss is a last name and not a first one. But the guy doesn't look German either. He's not like, super dark or anything, kind of olivey-copper in the shitty bar lighting. Like he almost looks sick but Tate is pretty sure he's the one about to be ill.

“Are you going to drink your beer, Andrew?” Weiss smiles. He's standing close enough to the barstool that Tate can feel the heat rolling off of him. 

“Yeah,” Tate rushes a big gulp of it and tries not to turn beet fucking red because he's already fucking this up.

Weiss doesn't say anything else, but he does tuck some of Tate’s hair back behind his ear before walking off. Fuck, fuck. Did Tate fuck up or something? Or is he supposed to follow Weiss? He doesn't know so he just keeps his ass glued to the barstool and keeps on drinking his fucking free beer.

After about ten minutes there's no sign of Weiss but there is another guy who almost looks like maybe his ID isn't real either. He's taller than Tate too, but a lot of guys are...with brownish-red hair and a dopey smile. With his hands in his pockets he kind of looks at Tate from across the room, then shyly waves his hand. Tate swivels his barstool back around because he wants another fucking beer but before he can pay for it the bartender tells him he's taken care of for the rest of the night. 

Oh.

But he still doesn't know the fucking etiquette of the situation. Only he might kinda want to stick his tongue down someone's throat. 

He does end up making out with the tall, young guy, back towards the rear of the bar with a big pillar between them and the rest of the room. This time he remembers his name is supposed to be Andrew and the other guy says that's funny, his name is Andrew too! That's about all they manage to say to each other because while his smile was shy, Andrew’s hands and mouth aren't really. He's not really a good kisser, but he's aggressive and Tate appreciates that much. That and the force of Andrew’s body trying to pin him to the wall.

When Tate opens his eyes again, he realizes Andrew isn't really good looking or anything but he doesn't really fucking care.

“Having fun?” 

Tate turns his head and it's Weiss standing to the side of them, a suit jacket thrown over his arm and a smile on his lips.

Letting go of Andrew’s shirt, he's not really sure if he owes Weiss anything. But he'd kind of rather owe Weiss something than keep on looking at Andrew’s face.

“Um, I guess,” Tate winches because he's just been making out with Andrew and he's standing right there and it's pretty insulting.

“Well, I'm heading home, if you'd like to join me?”

Tate's not sure how he's supposed to respond to that because this guy hasn't said a thing to him all night but he's also been paying for his beers. Though, he didn't exactly come here to talk, and Weiss has the biggest fucking hands he's ever seen.

“Yeah,” he steps away, leaving Andrew in a daze. “Let's go.”

They're barely out the door before Weiss lights up a cigarette. He offers one to Tate who politely declines. Then he's talking again. “So, what do you like?”

“Um,” Tate searches for something, “reading, books, I guess.”

The way Weiss laughs, Tate knows he fucked up. “That's cute, but I meant in terms of sex?” They keep a steady walking pace. “I'd like to know before we get there. Anything you want or don't want me to do. Or that you want to do to me?”

Tate feels like he's gonna pass the fuck out. Because while he and Butch have done some stuff, they sure as fuck don't talk about it. It kind of never occurred to Tate that people did talk about sex instead of just like, doing it. Fuck.

“I, ah,” he wonders if he should lie or leave stuff out or whatever. He really doesn't know because so far what he likes about sex is Butch. And what he hates about sex is Butch too. He's got three beers in him and he's maybe too honest. “I like having my dick sucked, but um, I'm not that good at like, doing it.”

“Do you want to be better?” The way Weiss asks, it sounds almost innocent. 

“Yeah, I think I would...and um,” his mind is racing but he also feels kind of at ease. “I like...having my hair pulled. And um...feeling bad…”

“Feeling bad? Like being hurt? Or insulted?”

“Kinda…” Well shit, “kinda both.”

“Andrew, you know if you're not sure about this, we don't have to.”

Tate rushes all at once because the last thing he wants right now is not to go through with this because even just being told to talk about what he wants, the embarrassment of that, is making him sort of hard. “No, I want this. I want you to push me around, maybe like, slap me, hit me. And call me names. Just like, only use your hands and stuff. No like...toys or anything. I don't like that.” Not that he has “toys” or anything like that. But he's tried sticking enough inanimate objects into himself that he knows he doesn't like that. He thinks maybe a real cock would be different. But he doesn't know.

“Okay,” Weiss keycards through the door of an impressive apartment complex. Like, a real expensive one with marble floor and fresh cut flowers in the lobby. Shit. “Just make sure you tell me if you want me to stop.”

And this is starting to make Tate feel like he's in some shitty sex novel. Like, Weiss is going to open the door to a penthouse apartment and it's going to be weird as fuck. And Tate also can't believe this is his fucking life. That he used an ID that wasn't his to go to a fucking gay bar and got picked up by some rich older man who's just going to like, fucking ravish him or some shit. But the apartment isn't on the top floor. It's just a one bedroom with a tiny kitchen and a huge living room framed by big glass windows. And the carpet is soft. There's a picture mounted on the wall right when they walk in. It's of Weiss and another man with dark hair and amber eyes. They're both smiling.

“So, Andrew,” Weiss locks the door behind them. He drops the keys and his phone on the table by the door and bends down to unlace his shoes. “Strip.”

Weiss doesn't even hang around to watch him, going instead to the kitchen. Tate thinks for a second maybe he should bolt. Weiss latched the door but the lock isn't complicated or anything and he's left the deadbolt off. He's not trying to lock Tate inside or anything. He's not trying to be weird. Just...in charge.

And isn't that what Tate has wanted from Butch? What he can't get because they're too busy trying not to hate themselves?

Tate toes off his shoes first, before stripping out of his jeans and tee. He hesitates for a second about his boxers. Whether Weiss meant all the way down or not. Tate figures he did, takes them off, and drops everything into a pile on the floor. The room is cool, makes the fine hairs on his arms stand up.

He's hard. Really fucking hard even though he's sort of losing it too. Hyper and scared and wanting to scream. He's naked in this guy’s house, waiting for him to come back from the kitchen. And fuck, fuck if Weiss doesn't come back soon he's gonna have to just jerk himself off in this guy’s living room because otherwise he doesn't know what's going to happen.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Weiss returns, though he looks no different than before. He's rolled up his sleeves, but that's about it. “God, you really are the prize fuckpig at the fair, aren't you?”

Fuck, fuck, getting insulted like that goes straight to his cock. He kind of wants more. Not to be the best, but the fucking worst.

“Well, get on your knees,” Weiss instructs. “Wait, not here, out in the living room.” 

The blinds are still open and the windows are so fucking big. If someone where to look? Weiss glances over, looks back at Tate, and goes to draw the blinds. Once they're shut, Tate feels a lot better, trotting into the living room and dropping onto his hands and knees in the center of the room.

“Pity. It would have been quite the show.” 

Weiss stands in front of Tate, the outline of his cock clear through his slacks. Tate waits for him to give another instruction. Unfastening his belt, Weiss drops his pants just low enough to pull out his erection, his balls too. It's proportional to how tall he is, long and nicely thick. And for a flash, Tate thinks about what it would be like in his ass. Whether he would like it or not.

“Suck,” Weiss instructs.

Tate reaches first with his hands, trying to position the cock right so he can take it into his mouth. But Weiss snatches his wrists, jerking them up and over Tate’s head. “Good pigs don't need their hands.” He sways his hips so that his cock brushes against Tate’s cheek.

Fuck, oh fuck. That's fucking hot as fuck. And Weiss pulls more on his arms until Tate’s shoulders fucking hurt. Tate tries again, this time just wrapping his lips around the head of Weiss’ cock and licking the underside. 

“Better, better,” Weiss bucks forward, making Tate take more than he's ready. “Show me what a nasty little pig you are.”

Tate moans around the cock in his mouth. Now he's fucking frustrated that he can't touch himself. He can't get any friction at all. But he's hard and he can tell his cock is weeping a little because he just fucking wants anything, anything at all to brush against it.

Reaching down, Weiss grabs at Tate’s jaw, snapping him back from his own thoughts. “Pay attention,” he growls. 

Tate tries to focus, keeping his mouth wet and his tongue moving as Weiss resumes fucking into his mouth. Longer and longer strokes until Tate realizes he's being folded backwards, his shoulders heading towards the floor. Tate knows he's pretty flexible, so it doesn't so much hurt as feel really...vulnerable. Weiss has still got his arms and he keeps pushing Tate back.

Their bodies fold together until Tate is on the floor and Weiss is on top of his chest, still stroking into his mouth. And Tate can't do fucking anything but start choking because fuck, fuck, he's going so deep and like, Tate has no idea what he's fucking doing because he always half-asses with Butch. But that's about all he needs to do because they both come kind of quickly.

Weiss pulls back, letting Tate wheeze and cough until his chest stops trembling. Once it does, he eases only the tip of his cock back between Tate’s lips. This is easier, he sucks on it, trying to move his tongue around. 

“Don't bother with that,” Weiss runs his fingers through Tate’s hair before grabbing on. Thrusting his hips down, the back of Tate’s head hits the carpet again. Shit.

This time Weiss only completes a few harsh strokes before standing up, leaving Tate a mess on the floor, saliva drying at the corners of his mouth. He doesn't tell Tate to get up, so Tate stays put, trying to catch his breath and thinking about what might happen if he touches his dick. He's pretty sure he'd come way too fast and make a fucking fool out of himself.

“Up on all fours.” Tate can only hear Weiss not see him, he's somewhere out of his line of sight. Still, he flips over, coming up on his hands and knees. At least he's graceful. He’ll always have that going for him. His cock swings heavily between his legs. Fuck, he wants to get off. FUCK!

Tate can feel Weiss step behind him, dropping to the floor. Reaching with one hand, he grabs a fistful of Tate’s hair, wrenching his head to one side until his cheek hits the floor. Weiss is so much taller, it's easy for him to reach. His hand stays there, twisted in Tate’s hair. Tate can feel Weiss’ naked body pressed against his.

Weiss’s slicked cock rubs against Tate’s ass, pressed along the length. And Tate is gripped by sudden panic. Because, well because…

“No, don't.” He's almost ashamed for having to stop. 

But Weiss stops immediately. Let's go of Tate’s hair and rocks back so they're not touching. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Tate’s not really sure.

“Andrew, I'm not doing anything you don't want. So which part didn't you like?”

Tate feels fucking stupid, having this conversation with his dick still hard, his ass in the air, and his face against this way-too-clean carpet. But he's also not sure if he's supposed to move or not. “I don't...I don't want you to fuck my ass, okay?”

Because Tate and Butch haven't done that. And...and. Fuck. He wants to do it with Butch, but not this strange man who probably has like, fucking matching plates and silverware and has his fucking life together.

“Sure, okay.” He sounds like he's smiling. Weiss smooths a hand over Tate’s ass, lifting it up and bringing it down sharply. The crack is really fucking loud, but it doesn't hurt too bad. “Shame, you look good enough to eat. Fuck.”

Grabbing Tate by the hips, Weiss flips him over, onto his back, before straddling his chest again. This time, Weiss keeps most of his weight on his own knees, rather than putting pressure on Tate’s torso. Tilting his head up, just a bit, Tate can see the length of Weiss’ cock as he strokes it, aimed right at his face.

“Yeah,” Tate manages to say, “Yeah.”

“This what you wanted? To get your pretty face fucked?” Weiss runs one finger along Tate’s bottom lip, “you're going to eat my cum, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I'm going to paint your face with it,” Weiss’ hand speeds up, he’s close. “Then I want to watch you scoop it up with your fingers. And, ah, show how apperceive you are. What a good slut.”

“Yes.”

Weiss lifts his hips higher, until his cock is over Tate’s face. Tate keeps his eyes open. He doesn't want to show fear, or weakness, or any of that bullshit.

“Tell me what you are.”

“A good slut. I'm a fucking whore.”

“Open your mouth.”

Tate does as he's told.

Weiss comes. Warm and bitter. Into Tate’s mouth, but also across his forehead, his cheeks. It's fucking humiliating. It's disgusting and vile. And if Tate doesn't come right fucking now he's going to throttle Weiss. They’ll need to mount a search team to find all the fucking pieces.

“Do as I told you. Clean yourself.”

Weiss watches as Tate drags his fingers across his face, collecting cum before licking it from his fingers. Fuck, fuck. He goes to repeat the process, but his whole body is fucking shaking. Weiss moves, dipping his head between Tate's legs and fuck, fuck. He takes Tate’s cock right to the base like it’s fucking easy. And Tate’s got no delusions of grander or anything. But Butch can't do nothing even close to that. A few short bursts of heat and wet and suction and Tate’s thrashing, Weiss holding him down by his hips and fucking laughing with the tip of Tate’s cock still in his mouth.

Rocking back on his heels, Weiss wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck, you're responsive.”

Tate feels his ears get warm but he's still too boneless to respond.

“Do you need anything? Water? Food, whatever?” Weiss stretches out on the carpet along side Tate, but makes no move to touch him. Tate’s glad. He wants the space.

“I just...I need to wash my face.” Now that he's come, the idea of being coated in some stranger's cum is less hot and more just sort of gross.

“Yeah, just, the hallway, then on your right.” Weiss sits up too.

On his way to the bathroom, Tate sees Weiss’ oversized smartphone on the table in the hall. It lights up as he passes. He shouldn't have looked.

Nate: I'll be home the end of the month!  
Nate: I love you.

Tate looks away, going to clean up.

When he returns from the bathroom, Weiss is sitting on the couch, dressed in sweats and a tee, a beer in his hand. Tate feels even more ridiculously naked. He should have grabbed his clothes from the hall.

“You can crash here, if you need?” Weiss offers.

Tate's not even sure he can look Weiss in the eye anymore. “No, um, I've got school in the morning.”

“Rough. I never did like early classes.”

Tate realizes that Weiss must assume college. Fuck, Weiss thinks his name is Andrew.

“Who’s Nate?” Tate blurts, because he doesn't want to accidentally admit he's still in high school.

Weiss’ hands curl tightly around his beer bottle. “Someone, my boyfriend, I guess.”

“He's the one in the photos, isn't he?”

Weiss sighs, “Yeah.”

“Then why…” Tate can't understand why, how, if someone loves you, and can say it, why you would ever, ever want to fuck that up.

Why is it Tate’s here, then?

Fuck.

“Don't worry. It's not your problem to solve.” Weiss says.

Yeah, Tate's got his own fucking problems.


	12. Charon/Butch/Tate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt sent to my tumblr that asked for Charon/Butch/Tate threeway. The consent here from Butch and Charon is slightly dubious (Charon and the contract, Tate has persuaded Butch), oral, rough, dirty talk, fidelity trouble. There's no actual threeway because I couldn't manage it. But all three of them are in the same place at the same time and Tate's naked...so.

“I hate you,” Butch says.

Charon replies, “I know.”

Tate starts to take off his clothes. Because he has nothing at all to say. Not anymore. He's said it all already. If he hadn't, they wouldn't be here. Wove all the words he needed to make Butch agree. A bunch of words written down two hundred years ago means Charon doesn't get to decide, one way or another.

The air in the Rivet City bedroom is humid, clogging up his lungs when Tate tries to breathe. He only takes shallow breaths. In through his mouth, and back out. His head is spinning. But he told them both he wants this. Charon can't say no. And Butch won't. Tate shucks his tee, then his pants and boxers in one sweep. 

Charon and Butch just wait. Still clothed and watching. Everyone on the ship will know, or at least suspect. Not like that time Tate slipped away from his father, let Flak and Shrapnel have him. Because that time was dark, and in their private quarters. Not a rented room at Vera’s. But Tate doesn't know where else to go.

Butch leans against the closed door, his bare feet shifting against the floor. Charon stands against the opposite wall, trying to keep as much space between as possible. Dropping to his knees, right now Tate only cares that they watch. He crawls forward, towards Butch first. Because this is still the only way he knows how to tell Butch without telling him. Butch comes first. Always, always. Just, Tate has trouble shaking his restlessness. It's starting to make his bones brittle.

On his hands and knees, naked before Butch, Tate drops his head between his shoulders. “Please, please let me suck you. Use me, please.”

“Fuck, Nosebleed.” This time Butch doesn't call him fucked up. Maybe Butch got that out of his system earlier. When Tate first asked for this.

Butch opens his button fly, freeing his cock. He's soft and clean, waiting for Tate to taste. Keeping his hips pressed back against the door, Butch speaks, “Suck it, then.”

Tate doesn't use his hands, folding them behind his back. He doesn't like being tied. Butch knows that, but maybe sometimes he likes pretending. Fuck it, maybe Tate doesn't know anything, he's always considered that as a distinct possibility. He takes Butch’s cock in his mouth, trying to work it hard. If it were up to him, Butch wouldn't be here, not under these circumstances. Tate knows that much.

But this is still Butch, and he still wants Tate, not matter the circumstances. They're always gonna want each other, even if they can't always have. Even if it's gonna smash them both into little fragments, glass against the concrete. So Butch gets hard in Tate’s mouth, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling. He twitches his hips forward, forward, until Tate chokes a little bit. Not much, not enough. But now Butch is hard and slick, cock poking out from his open fly. And Tate wants to wreck himself before he thinks too much about things he doesn't deserve. 

Pulling off with a wet noise, Tate looks up, trying to get Butch’s eyes back on him, panting, letting saliva run from the edges of his mouth. “Butch,” always first. Please, don’t forget. “Charon,” he hesitates. Everything will come apart now. “Make me feel bad.”

Charon stalks across the room, grabbing Tate by his hair and yanking him back. He spits curses as Charon drags him across the floor, flailing with his limbs. Charon’s about the only person he’s met strong enough to stop him. Thick strands of damaged hair come out between Charon’s fingers. He drops them to the floor before sticking three of his wretched digits into Tate’s mouth. Deep enough to choke. Tate gags around them, trying to keep his eyes open.

He can smell the smoke from Butch’s cigarette. Trying to pass the time. Tate doesn’t even know if Butch is watching, but even if he looks away, he can’t help but hear the wet, strangled sounds from his throat. 

Charon removes his fingers, replaces them with his cock. Slams it past Tate’s teeth, rattles him hard enough to hurt his neck. But he tries, desperately to suck, to be anything but a passive object. So he moves his tongue and lips, grabs at Charon’s hips, feeling the roughness of his trousers and the ruined skin beneath. Hard and dry and foreign. His fingers sink deeper than they should.

Using his hair to thrust Tate’s mouth onto his cock, Charon, moves his hips very little at first. But as the minutes drag, his control falters, dragging Tate deeper onto his cock. Tate struggles for air, trying to push Charon back, to breathe, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He pushes Charon far enough away to manage a ragged, “Stop.” He spits onto the floor.

Charon stills, his hand still in Tate’s hair. In the quiet of the room, Tate can hear the soft sound of Butch putting out his cigarette. 

Shakily, Tate makes it to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His nose is bleeding, red droplets against his knuckles.

Before he can turn, Butch grabs his hips, hard, with nails and force. Because simple words can’t control him. Influence, maybe, but not bind. Butch shoves Tate towards the bed, laying his taller body on top of Tate’s. he’s still mostly dressed, the buttons on his fly digging into Tate’s ass. “What the fuck is this supposed to prove?” He hisses into Tate’s ear, he’s trying to be quiet, but the room is too small for that. 

Tate twists his hands into the sheets, rolling his hips back, onto Butch’s, whining as his cock brushes against the mattress. “That I’m wrecked.”

“You’re a piece of shit and I hate you, that’s what,” Butch stutters. But Tate knows he doesn’t mean that either. Even though the words aren’t true, they raise a panic inside his chest. Because what if this is the time that Butch walks out? “Please,” Butch is quiet again. “Tell him to leave.” Tate can feel Butch’s heart racing against his own skin through his clothes.

Tate swallows, his head still buried against the mattress, Butch’s weight warm against his naked back. “Charon, you’re dismissed.”

Charon wastes no time exiting the room, probably to go to the upper decks and smoke. The residents don’t like it when he wanders the halls, or sits at the bar, or is anywhere they can easily see him. Ruins their view.

Over top of Tate, Butch exhales, sounds like he’s been holding his breath for a long time. Days, maybe. Since Tate asked for this. Butch kisses him between his shoulder blades before climbing off. 

“What the fuck?” Tate shouts, pushing himself back up, because Butch agreed. He said he would do this for Tate. 

“What the fuck?” Butch mocks, pulling his shirt off by the collar before tossing it into the corner. He kicks off his pants next. Crawling into bed with Tate, Butch kisses him with as much anger as affection, biting at his lips, trying to push his way past his teeth. 

Their bodies rub together as they shift across the mattress. Tate doesn’t know where to put his hands, because part of him still wants to punch Butch in the mouth, throw him over, and tear him up. But the rest of him says to just kiss and soak, bundle up everything Butch is willing to give, because one day, he’ll be gone. Tate keeps his hands curled into fists at his side. He bites Butch’s tongue instead. Butch pulls back sharply.

“I hate you,” Butch repeats. They both know he means something else. “I hate you,” he kisses Tate again.

“You should,” Tate manages when they break apart.


	13. That Doesn't Bite (AU, Butch/Tate/Yalda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anal, oral, drinking, college, AU, threeway, dirty talk

Violet promises him, promises, that he doesn’t look silly. She won’t let him look at himself in the mirror yet, still carving away at his face with the thick-ish makeup. Yalda doesn’t want to admit he knows how much the sleek little palette she’s using costs. It’s one of those flash palettes pro artists use where she has to mix all the shades herself from primary colors. And she’s being really nice about it, trying to make just the right shades of brown and cream to compliment Yalda’s complexion but, oh, she’s just using so much of it. He’s not worth it and it’s just a Halloween party. But Violet is clearly having a great time getting to put makeup on him, so Yalda keeps quiet, folding his hands in his lap while she buzzes around him and works.

Then again, Violet’s parents are paying her tuition so maybe the palette was a gift and she really really doesn’t mind. Or even know that it retails for like a hundred and twenty dollars. She paints a liberal dot of the darkest brown at the tip of his nose before grabbing a fluffier brush to blend the edges a bit.

Yalda curls his hands around the hem of his dress instead of fidgeting. They could have taken the time to repaint his nails where the black polish is chipping, but they’re already running out of time and the party started twenty minutes ago. Violet assures him again and again that it’s normal to be late. Like, an hour late, or more, but Yalda still feels like they should have shown up on time. And is she sure they don’t need to bring anything?

“God, yeah, I’m sure, unless you don’t want to drink the beer or punch that would be there? We could bring our own flasks. But we’re really not expected to bring anything. Trust me, the upperclasspeople have this covered.” She rolls her eyes.

“Okay, okay, sure.” He tries not to move too much, since Violet is still working.

“It’s like you’ve never been to a party before.”

Yalda is glad she’s already specked his cheeks with cream colored dots. Maybe they’ll keep his blush from showing. They’ve been at college since August and yeah, it’s the end of October, but partying wasn’t really part of Yalda’s high school experience, and he didn’t think that would change when he got to college. But Violet has just been so nice to him, so when she said he should come, he agreed.

She always smells like the flower that is her namesake and she always pins her hair up messily and wears fake eyelashes to eight am class. And Yalda is maybe a little jealous she always looks so effortlessly put together. So he doesn’t even mind being her…whatever he is. He doesn’t really mind that Violet wouldn’t even look at him if he were straight.

“Did you want eyelashes too?” She opens up the top dresser drawer where she keeps all her makeup. “I have an unused set. But I also have an unopened tube of sample mascara we could use. Your lashes are so dark and pretty. But we should make them at least a little bigger.”

He manages to get out that he thinks the false lashes would be better. Only after realizing that’s another thing that costs money. But Violet doesn’t seem to care. She pulls the lashes out, popping open the plastic.

She gets right in front of his face to apply them, her green eyes sparkling bright, obviously pleased with her handiwork. They’ve been at this for almost forty five minutes.

“There! Done! Here,” she grabs his antlers from the top of the dresser holding them out. “You should put them on yourself.”

Violet has a full length mirror affixed to her closet door and Yalda gets up to take a look at himself. He doesn’t really look in the mirror at first, but he really wants to know what he looks like.

Oh, and he thinks he looks okay. The beige tights are a little darker than his skin tone, but they cover up his leg hair without having to shave, which was seriously something he was considering earlier because he really wanted to wear the little brown short sleeve A-line dress that falls to just above his knees. It’s maybe supposed to fall just past the wearer’s knees but he’s a bit too tall for that. The scoop collar shows off his clavicle a little, but then he feels sort of bad about liking how his clavicles stick out. Mostly he’s a bony mess but in some places he likes it. The nest of cords and bracelets wound around his right wrist don’t really come off anymore. So while they don’t exactly go with the costume, he’d have to cut some of them and he doesn’t really want to. The converses don’t go either, but they’re the only pair of shoes he’s got without holes right now.

And Violet has done a really, really great job of his makeup, darkening his forehead and chin a little, emphasizing the longness of his face. The starker lines follow down the side of his nose to the dark tip. The cream color freckles over his cheeks and highlights under and over the natural shape of his eyes, making them look huge. He looks just like the pictures on Instagram of (mostly) girls in deer makeup. He’d made the antlers himself a couple of days ago from small branches he’d picked up on the quad bound together with leather cord. He’s hot glued barrettes into them so he can pin them properly into his hair. It takes a little bit of work, but he tests them by shaking his head wildly to make sure they stay in.

“Okay,” he turns to face Violet again. She’s dressed as a black cat in a tight-fitting leotard, big bushy tail and fuzzy ears. She looks bright and happy and amazingly curvy. Great, just great. She looks great.

“Ready?” She asks, sticking her flask into her crossbody purse.

He should take his flask too. Even though he’s not much of a partier, he does drink a little. And he’ll probably feel safer being able to watch his own drink. “Yeah, but can we stop by my room.”

“Yeah of course,” she smiles widely, “the later, the more fashionable.” She wraps her arm around one of his before leading him out of the dorm.

–

Yalda manages to lose Violet almost immediately. Cursing under his breath, he tries to push through the cramped clutches of bodies in the sorority house. Everywhere he turns is a new face and it’s making him sort of uncomfortable. But they’re all smiling and happy. So Yalda takes another swig from his flask and resolves to try and at least have a good time.

He wishes his dress had pockets where he could stick his hands, at least. But instead he just plays with the strap of his little shoulder bag when his hands aren’t busy with the flask. After about twenty minutes he slides into the kitchen, where more liquor is set up and mixes himself a drink. Just vodka and orange juice. And while he knows he shouldn’t drink from like, open-open containers, he figures the liquor bottles are better than the punch bowl, right?

It’s when Yalda is trying to squeeze his way back into the high-ceilinged dining room that he sees him. And wow. He stands out. Not because of his costume, because, honestly, his costume is pretty lazy. But he looks so good in it. Tight black skinny jeans, a red plaid flannel that pulls across his shoulders and chest, and cheap, store bought devil’s horns covered in red sequins carefully perched on top of a head of styled black hair. Yeah, the costume is lazy, but the guy has eyes so bright a blue Yalda can’t look away.

Okay. He can do this. He can at least talk to the guy. Yalda takes another big gulp of his drink, warming his cheeks. It’s not as if he doesn’t have any experience at all. He’s slept with people before, sort of, and even kind of had a boyfriend in high school, though he had to sort of hide it from his foster parents, not sure how they would react. And he knows he’s a bit of a mess sometimes, but he’s not terrible looking. And he’s polite. Just, he really wants to try. Worst case, this guy isn’t into men, which is probably the case because of like, statistics or whatever. But Yalda doesn’t want to kick himself later for not even trying.

He leaves his solo cup on the sticky central table, already crowded with beer bottles, empty vodka handles, and rolling papers. Wiping his hands against his dress, Yalda tries to come up with an opening line. But the blue-eyed guy isn’t even looking at him, hasn’t noticed him in the least. So he needs to say something. Okay. Okay.

Someone bumps into Yalda from behind and he almost loses his footing, righting himself just in time. The guy seems to notice that, but doesn’t reach out to grab him or help him or anything. Damn, that would have been perfect. But nothing ever goes perfect for Yalda, so he doesn’t know what he’d expected.

“Um, hi,” Yalda starts, pushing his hair out of his forehead without thinking much of it.

“What?” The guy asks. Yalda realizes the room is too loud and he’s got to speak up.

“Sorry! Hi! I’m Yalda,” he sticks out his hand, because it’s the polite thing to do, though in the couple of seconds it takes the guy to shake it, he feels painfully awkward.

“Butch.”

“Butch,” Yalda repeats, drawing his hand back when Butch lets go. And, oh, God, Butch is smiling at him. And he doesn’t have anything else to say! He didn’t think this far ahead. And he can’t just say ‘you’re so handsome I think I lost my mind for a moment. Don’t mind me. But if you would kindly bend me over the next available surface, that would be just stellar.’

Mercifully, Butch seems marginally better at conversation than Yalda is. Or maybe it’s just that Yalda is failing so spectacularly that an actual, literal rock could do better. “What’s that accent?” He goes to take a sip of his beer, but Yalda can see the bottle is empty. Butch nicks the neck against his teeth.

“Oh,” Yalda gestures bigger than he intended. “I’m from Vancouver, so ah, yes.”

“Nice, nice,” Butch isn’t quite looking at him. Looking at Yalda should be easy. They’re just about the same height and the lights aren’t too dim or anything, but Butch keeps looking over Yalda’s shoulder. Oh, he’s waiting for someone. Yalda feels a cramp deep in his gut. A girlfriend or something. But still, his eyes flicker back to Yalda’s and he smiles and maybe it’s silly but Yalda’s lungs flutter in sweet anticipation. At least he made Butch smile.

“So, I haven’t seen you before. You a freshman?”

“Yeah!” Yalda has gotta keep this conversation going somehow. “I just started in the fall, um, you?”

“Senior, in compsci.”

“Oh!” Yalda’s hands flutter in the nervous way he’s tried to stop doing but can never quite curb properly. “I’m in engineering.”

“Yeah?” Butch’s eyes shift away again. But this time he smiles so big and bright at someone else Yalda wishes he could just fade from existence. Because oh, Butch is just being nice to him. Too polite to tell him to go away. Or Yalda is just so inept at actually properly flirting that Butch has no idea that Yalda has been trying to pick him up.

Another guy slides in from behind, sweeping around Yalda and holding out a fresh beer for Butch to take. He’s shorter, hovering just around 5’7” and heavily built despite his narrow frame. Like Butch, his costume looks sort of cheap and haphazard. Well, it’s barely a costume. His chest is bare except for two thin, white straps that crisscross over his pecs to hold a pair of wire and feather wings to his back. The white shorts he’s wearing are like, really indecently short, barely covering his ass. His halo is sort of crooked on top of his bleach-blond hair and absolutely none of it goes with his leather combat boots.

When Butch throws his arm over the new guy’s shoulder, pulling him close against his side, Yalda realizes that it’s not that they’re friends. These are like, couples costumes. Yeah, of course Butch is with someone. It’s a possibility Yalda considered. Right. Shit, it’s still embarrassing.

They both stare at Yalda, sipping their beers and waiting for him to say something or leave or…Yalda doesn’t even know what. But when the silence doesn’t break naturally, the other guy picks up the slack, holding out his free hand. “I’m Tate.”

“This is Yalda,” Butch explains. Yalda didn’t even realize he hadn’t responded. “He’s a freshman in engineering.”

Tate’s staring at him, appraising. There’s something mildly menacing about it. While Tate is a good three inches shorter than Yalda, he must have thirty pounds on him, all densely packed. And despite the hair that doesn’t quite suit him, he’s almost as good looking as Butch. Just different, with a kind of charming fierceness to balance Butch’s more relaxed demeanor.

“Oh? I’m an English major, so, you know. Useless,” Tate smiles. “You’re cute.” Tate doesn’t leave a pause for Yalda to say anything. Tilting his head to one side, Tate continues. “Do you think he’s cute, Butch?”

Butch doesn’t move his arm from around Tate’s shoulders, but he does shrug slightly. “I dunno, I guess.”

“You guess,” Tate mocks, taking another sip of his beer. He winces slightly, like he doesn’t like the taste of it, but takes another sip in any case. “So tell me, Yalda. Were you or were you not trying to fuck Butch?”

Yalda’s face flushes again. Oh shit. “I ah, I didn’t know that he..um…” He waves his hands erratically trying to explain in gestures instead of words. “That he had a…ah, I’m sorry.”

Tate snickers, “What are you sorry for?” Next to him Butch scowls. “Butch is hot. There’s not really a way around it. No one blames you,” Tate almost purrs towards the end.

Frozen in place, Yalda wants nothing more than to start running and keep running until he clears the state line. Until he clears the border back up into Canada and can run for the opposite coast. Because Tate leaves Butch where he stands, half leaning against the table, and steps closer to Yalda instead. Tate drums his fingers against Yalda’s shoulder, just where the fabric of his sleeve ends.

“I know I’m not as handsome as he is,” Tate smiles, “but you wouldn’t mind if I came too, would you? We’re sort of a package deal.”

Basically all remnants of protective logic flood out of Yalda’s brain, pooling in his lower abdomen instead. Another half-step and Tate tucks himself in against Yalda’s chest. Oh, ah, he can definitely feel the press of Tate’s erection against his thigh and Yalda can feel he’s just as hard, trapped in his tights.

Tate starts by kissing along Yalda’s jaw, soft and sweet next to the bite of his words. “We should go somewhere with less of an audience.”

“Oh,” Yalda’s still dizzy from the light affections. “Yes.”

Smiling, Tate grabs Yalda’s hand, leading him through the crowd of partygoers in various stages of drunkenness. Yalda kind of wants another swig from his flask but he’s also worries that if he lets go of Tate both he and Butch will vanish into thin air. And he wants this. Oh, he might be scared as shit and have no idea what he’s doing, but he wants this.

Senior year of high school he sucked Will Kane’s cock, a bunch of times. Even though Will didn’t like kissing him. And the summer before leaving for college he’d let Jack Preston put it in him back in the woods behind the Volker’s vacation cabin. But Jack had been so giddy and nervous, calling Yalda a ‘fucking tease’ who now had to ‘work for it,’ even though it had been Yalda’s suggestion that they try and had gone from proposition to pants around their ankles in a span of about fifteen minutes. That and he only got about halfway in, with Yalda’s face pressed up against a pretty sturdy tree before coming hard and fast inside the condom. After he had come, Jack was just sort of breathless and didn’t offer to help Yalda out any, so he sat on the forest floor and jerked himself off while Jack watched from a safe distance. Back in September, Jack had sent him a couple of dirty texts or whatever. And it’s not like Yalda didn’t appreciate the thought, but he just texted back that he was already away in Boston for school and didn’t hear anything back from Jack.

But Tate’s hand is warm in Yalda’s, and a little sweaty. When he looks back, he can see Butch following along behind, smiling. He’s not really looking at Yalda, tracking Tate’s blond head instead.

Throwing open the closet door, Tate shoves Yalda inside. It’s filled with women’s jackets and a bunch of dance line uniforms and boots of all sizes litter the floor. Sorority, right. These are the girls' things.

Butch closes the door behind the three of them, muffling the sounds of the party. The closet isn’t huge, the three of them barely fit inside, but Tate grabs Yalda by the front of his dress and pulls him further back into the closet until Tate hits the back wall and Yalda falls against his chest. There’s a dull snap that is probably one of Tate’s cheap wings breaking against the wall.

“So, how do you, want to do this?” Tate twists both his hands in the front of Yalda’s dress, stretching the fabric. Laughing, Tate adds, “there are lots of options.”

Butch’s weight settles a bit against Yalda’s back, his hands coming all the way around until they brush against Tate’s hips, just where his shorts start. Tucking his head to the side of Yalda’s, Butch squeezes the three of them together until he can get his lips on Tate’s. Their kiss is loud and messy and so close that Yalda doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be doing something too.

When Butch and Tate break apart, Tate takes hold of Yalda’s face and drags him into a kiss that lacks some of the urgency but has all of the same sloppy wetness, Tate’s tongue pushing into his mouth until Yalda groans. He can feel Butch hard against the curve of his ass too, pressing sharply as he starts rucking up the hem of Yalda’s dress.

Yalda still hasn’t answered Tate’s question, so he asks it another way. “Do you like getting your cock sucked?”

Hissing, Yalda wishes he could better articulate with words rather than the somewhat gangly movements of his body. He tries to grind back into Butch. But it’s not like he doesn’t want his dick sucked. No one has ever done it for him.

“Ah, yeah, I think so?”

Tate narrows his eyes a little. In the dimness of the closet, they look more black than anything else. “You’ve had sex before, right? Because I dunno how I feel about anyone’s first time being a threeway in a closet with two dudes they just met.”

“Tate,” Butch’s voice sounds almost sad, and something in Tate’s face shifts too. As soon as it’s there, it passes too.

“Yeah,” Yalda admits, “I’m not a virgin, but, ah, I don’t have a ton of experience either. Just no one…has done that for me.”

Tate seems somewhat unconvinced, but he pecks at Yalda’s lips anyway, short and sweet and almost familiar. “Okay, sure, Butch is great at sucking cock, this will be a real treat for you.”

Grabbing Yalda by the hips, Tate spins him around so he faces Butch instead. Butch scowls, “Why ya volunteering me for this, Nosebleed?”

“Do you really want his first blowjob to be from me?” Tate stresses, “even I’m not enough of an asshole to inflict that on anyone, fuck.”

Butch snickers, pulling up Yalda’s dress. The tights keeps Yalda’s erection pressed against his leg. It’s almost painful now, given how long he’s been hard. But he’s also been so overwhelmed with everything he hasn’t thought much about the twinge of pain.

“Are ya gonna be mad if these end up ruined?” Butch snaps the elastic pulled over Yalda’s hips until it goes almost transparent.

“Um, ah,” Yalda starts sliding the tights and briefs down off his hips with a single tug. Butch helps him, grabbing the waistband and pulling them the rest of the way down as he sinks to his knees in front of Yalda. Shit, oh, this is really going to happen. Yeah, sure, he thought he would maybe approach Butch. And probably get rejected. But if not maybe he would be the one sucking on Butch’s cock, or mutual handjobs or something. Yalda didn’t expect this. He couldn’t have expected this.

Tate pulls Yalda tightly so they’re back to chest, snaking his arms around Yalda’s torso and holding him in place. He stretches a bit to get his mouth next to Yalda’s ear.

“I bet you’d look real pretty on your hands and knees too.”

Butch wraps one hand around the back of Yalda’s thigh, using the other to grab hold of his cock and stroke. Once, twice, then he puts his lips over the head. Sinking down, Butch takes him halfway at first, licking his tongue on the underside, his wet mouth starting to suction. His lips drag back up the shaft, ripping a groan from Yalda’s lips. He’s still locked in place, Tate’s cock pressed against his ass. His hands drop from Yalda’s chest, snaking inside his dress instead, skimming along Yalda’s sides, back up to his chest. Tate flicks hard against his nipples.

“You’re really fucking loud.”

Yalda hadn’t noticed, too focused on Butch’s mouth and Tate’s hands. The assaults from all angles that keep threatening to swallow him up. Butch’s hand slips away so he can put more of Yalda’s cock into his mouth, all the way down until his nose presses into Yalda’s dark public hair. Choking slightly, Butch pulls back half an inch before tipping forward again.

Oh, shit, it’s just so wet and warm and consuming. And Tate just keeps touching him and whispering ridiculous things in his ear about how he’s pretty and they really should think about taking him home. And sometimes he says things about Butch. Like how he looks really fucking great with a cock in his mouth. And how jealous he is that Yalda’s gonna come down his throat.

Butch bottoms out again on Yalda’s cock, and this time he does this fluttering thing with his throat that is completely unexpected and like nothing Yalda has felt before. Not that he’s ever received a blowjob before, but this is unreal. He’s bucking into Butch’s mouth and doesn’t even notice that Tate is holding back his arms and grinding his hips against Yalda’s ass and scraping his teeth against the back of his neck.

He comes in thick spurts, heavy and hard. But Butch doesn’t seem the least concerned, just wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stands. Leaning over Yalda’s shoulder, he kisses Tate again, open mouthed and vicious. Yalda can feel both of them are still hard on either side of him and he honestly shivers thinking about what comes next, because it’s not like this is some sort of charity, right? They’re going to want something from him. He wants to give them something.

“Neither of us were really expecting this today,” Tate brushes his bangs away from his eyes. “Unless you have a condom?”

Yalda bites his bottom lip, “No?” He hadn’t really planned this either. Just…Butch had looked too good. He still looks too good, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and his lips puffy pink. Oh, shit, those lips were wrapped around Yalda’s dick.

“Butch, love,” Tate relaxes his hands, slumping against the wall. “Want you to fuck me, yeah?”

Butch’s voice is raspy, different than before, “Yeah.”

“Ah,” Yalda’s not sure if he should leave or what. Only Butch is reaching around him to unzip Tate’s shorts and he’s literally sandwiched between them. “Should I, um…”

“You could suck him? While I fuck him?” Butch offers. “That’d be cool.”

Cool? Cool. Right, okay.

“Yeah.”

They have to rub up against each other to start shifting around positions. The closet really isn’t big enough for this and they keep knocking into coathangers and then a baseball bat falls onto Butch’s foot and he curses, kicking it away. The aluminum makes a hollow sound as it hits the wall, somewhere back behind the dance line uniforms. They end up with Yalda on his knees, his back against the wall so that Tate can brace his arms above him. Yalda’s still sort of tangled in his tights but it’s not uncomfortable and his dress covers everything.

Butch shoves down Tate’s shorts first, all the way to the ground. Tate steps out of one leg so he can spread his feet but leaves the other leg loose around his combat boot. Butch only bothers to undo his belt and fly, yanking out his cock and sliding it along the curve of Tate’s ass.

Tipping forward, Tate presses his hands against the wall, shadowing out the already dim light in the closet. And his cock is there, right there. But he doesn’t tell Yalda to take it or to suck or anything. He doesn’t even move until the steady groan falls from his mouth as Butch pushes into him. With the little buck of his hips, Yalda figures he should get to work too, putting his lips over the head of Tate’s cock.

“Oh, fuck, Butch, fuck,” his hips push back, towards Butch, slipping his cock out of Yalda’s mouth. Not wanting to appear impolite, Yalda leans forward to put it back between his lips, licking the underside in a way that mimics what Butch did earlier. “Fuck, fuck,” and then Tate laughs in a way that is joyously happy. “It feels really fucking good.”

They don’t move fast, it’s a slow pull instead, Butch fucking into Tate, sending his cock into Yalda’s mouth. Maybe they’re being careful because of him. But Tate whines high and often, always panting praises and curses in turn. Yalda’s antlers scratch against Tate’s stomach, but he doesn’t seem to mind, hissing every time they scrape. The friction tugs at Yalda’s hair.

When Tate comes, it’s bitter on Yalda’s tongue, and he’s not as good at swallowing, some of it running from the corners of his mouth and ending up on the collar of his dress. Tate starts falling and for a second Yalda’s worried he’s going to end up on top of him, but Butch reaches around to catch Tate by the waist, hoisting him back up.

“You lazy fucking ass,” he bites into Tate’s neck. Another set of strokes, harsher now that Yalda has pulled away, and Butch groans too, emptying into Tate.

They’re all breathless for a moment, Butch folding Tate back against his chest as they join Yalda on the floor. He kisses Tate’s neck first, then his lips when Tate cranes his neck to reach. There’s teeth marks against Tate’s neck, already turning angry and dark.

“That was fun,” Tate smiles. “You alright, Yalda?”

Yalda lets his head rest against the wall behind him. There’s too much going on in his head to form a proper thought. What this means? It doesn’t mean anything, probably. They’d all had a little to drink then, you know, hooked up in a closet. He’d hooked up in the closet with two frankly gorgeous guys, who, from the looks of it, are crazy about each other. And he was just sort of a fun distraction. Not that he minds, really. He’s only ever really been a distraction in situations like this. No one’s first choice or anything. But he enjoyed it. And replaying this in his head is going to be fantasy material for literally years. Shit.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Ah, I hope I did okay?”

Both Tate and Butch laugh, a coordinated response. “You did fine,” Tate smiles. “Hey, if this is weird or anything, tell me, yeah? But like, do you want to exchange numbers or something? It doesn’t have to be for sex. But it could be for sex? I dunno. You looked sort of lost before,” Tate bites the tip of his tongue, “I just remember what it was like and all.”

Yalda’s eyes flick from Tate’s to Butch’s. He’s not sure what he expects. Maybe for Butch to object or something. But he doesn’t. He does, however, squeeze Tate closer, resting his chin on Tate’s shoulder. “We could just hang out, if you want?”

“Yes!” Yalda realizes too late that he’s over excited. Maybe he should have tried harder to seem disinterested. “I mean, uh, yeah, that would be cool.”

“Killer,” Tate smiles.


	14. Butch/Tate: July 2287

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anal, rough sex, married couple, teasing and shit, normal stuff.

July is so fucking hot. Even with all the windows and doors thrown open, the salt breeze coming off the sea too. Nothing can cut through the heat that swirls like a cotton cloud around their heads and between their legs. It nips at their noses and clogs up their ears. Makes them both miserable.

During the day they're so on edge that Butch stays in front of his terminals while Tate does fuck knows what. Butch doesn't fucking care, as long as he's left in peace, sitting in front of the monitor in his boxers, pounding down bottles of purified water.

He's not making any progress on his fucking game, just letting his eyes go unfocused, blurring the lines of code in his vision. Besides, the machines give off even more heat. Fuck. It's been hours since he last saw Tate. Well, fuck him too.

Butch’s skin makes a terrible wet, peeling sound as he gets up from his chair. Like his damn skin would rather stay stuck, stripped away from his boiling bones. Sweat drips down the line of his neck as he walks to the kitchen for another bottle of water. They have plenty. But other than that the fridge is mostly empty. Not that he can really think about eating anyway.

Tate isn’t sprawled out over the couch like Butch expects. And he’s not in the bedroom either. They’re leaving all the lights off in a vain attempt to drop the temperature a degree or two. Besides, the light from outside is plenty. 

Butch heads out the back door to the porch, the only other reasonable place that Tate might be, if he’s still home. Though it’s not like Tate is usually fucking reasonable about anything. 

And this isn’t the time to start being reasonable, because Tate’s not using one of the stained, off-white deck chairs he keeps saying he’s gonna paint a better color. Instead, he’s on the wooden deck, his back against the house and his legs splayed out in front of him. He’s only in his boxers too, well except for the oversized, dark-framed glasses on his fucking face that Butch is sure he’s never fucking seen before. What the fuck?

Butch just sort of stands slack-jawed for a moment. Part of him is trying to locate the particular insult he should hurl about Tate looking a major nerdbox. But mostly he’s just struck by how well the glasses suit Tate, sliding down just a bit from his nose as he scribbles in his notebook. He’s just drawing circles in it now, though there are scratched, ugly lines of text jammed up in one corner. 

With his eyes half-closed, Tate doesn’t look up at first. Maybe he doesn’t even realize that Butch is here, staring. He should stop staring. But Tate looks oddly at peace, quieter than normal and absorbed in what he’s doing. He bites at his bottom lip, as if drawing abstract shapes is really fucking hard, or important.

Butch isn’t sure what actually gives him away, if he breathes too heavily, or Tate would have looked up at that moment in any case. But when he tilts his head up, a rush of staggered emotions cycle through Tate’s expression. Surprise first, then a sort of flushed anger as he reaches for the glasses, pulling them away from his face. 

Tate gets them off his nose before Butch can drop down to his level, trying to worm his way into Tate’s personal space. He brackets his arms on either side of Tate’s head, palms pressed to the exterior wall behind him, and growling, “Put them back on.”

Half-heartedly, Tate smiles, biting the tip of his tongue before asking, “Why, so you can make fun of me?” But he’s gotta already know that’s not it. Not from the way Butch can feel his heart speeding up already, the heavy fall of his breathing.

But Tate does slide the glasses back on, pressing them up high on the bridge of his nose. It’s useless though as they slip back down a touch. This time, Tate’s smile is defiant. Just because he didn’t mean to ensnare Butch like this, doesn’t mean he won’t feast on the carcass. 

“Fuck, Nosebleed, fuck.” Butch loops his arms under Tate’s knees instead, spreading them wide so he can fit in between them, brushing their still-boxers-covered cocks against each other. The air is stifling but Butch doesn’t really care. Might care after, but not now. 

Tate hisses, tossing his notebook away and clawing his fingers into Butch’s bare back instead. The metal of Tate’s left arm hurts more than the keratin of the right. He rolls his hips into Butch’s, pulling Butch down at the same time. “I’m fucking dying here,” he spits.

Ignoring Tate’s statement, Butch starts shifting away, letting Tate’s nails drag. Once he’s far enough, he grabs Tate by the hips instead, yanking him away from the wall so that his head hits the porch with a dull thud. He knows it ain’t hard enough to have actually hurt Tate, so he ignores the protests that follow. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you need glasses?” He tries to make it sound accusatory, not concerned. Tate won’t tell him if the question is out of concern. A challenge though? Maybe.

Tate’s already trying to shove off his own boxers, but he’s still got his legs wrapped around Butch’s hips, so he only gets about mid-thigh, his half-hard cock bouncing obscenely against his stomach. The fabric bunches up around Butch’s waist. 

“Don’t need em, that’s why.”

“You’re a fucking liar.” Butch pushes Tate’s leg back so they can get his leg out of the boxers, then the other side. Once free, Tate pushes himself up, trying to get into Butch’s lap. Butch puts an end to that, shoving his back down to the deck. “Don’t you fucking dare.” 

Laughing, Tate responds, “Look who fucking decided he’s running the show?”

Butch nearly decks him just for that snide comment. But that’s what Tate wants half the time, to get a fucking rise out of Butch so he’ll push harder. And today? WIth the heat and sudden wave of frustration? Butch is starting out a lot closer to the edge of that cliff. Leaning over, Butch bites at Tate’s neck, high, close to the line of his jaw, and doesn’t let go until Tate breathes, “Fuck,” and jerks his hips so hard Butch almost mistakes it for orgasm. 

He’s gotta inch back again to hook his hand in the elastic of his boxers and shove them down a little. Doesn’t have the patience anymore to get them all the way off, just down off his ass and his cock out. In the time it takes Butch to get that far, Tate’s already got his hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking harshly and grinding up into his right hand. 

“You can’t fucking wait five seconds?” Butch snaps.

“Nah, can’t. You always take forever with everything.” Tate rolls his eyes behind the glare of the glass.

Huffing, Butch curses under his breath before trying to yank Tate around again. Only ever works if Tate lets him, helps him a little, arranging his arms and legs as Butch moves him. Tate gets flipped over, onto his hands and knees instead of his back, ass up in the air and his shoulders dropped closer to the deck. Grabbing Tate’s hair with one hand, Butch slides his fingers of the other hand against Tate’s hole. It slips in, past the ring of resistance, letting Butch curl his finger while Tate bucks back onto it.

“See, you take,” Tate’s breath hitches, “fucking forever.”

Annoyed, Butch drags his finger back out, slapping Tate’s ass hard before standing up.

“Hey! What the fuck?” Tate starts getting up too, but Butch puts his foot between his shoulderblades, keeping him down on the floor. The hinge of the glasses cuts into Tate’s temple. 

“Fucking wait,” Butch hisses.

He finally manages to shed his boxers as he stumbles back into the house. His dick is hard and honestly fucking killing him. But it’s not worth wrecking Tate’s ass over. Literally. They’re too old for that shit. Butch fumbles around in the dark of their bedroom to grab the lube before heading back out to the porch.

And fuck, Tate is exactly how Butch left him. Breathing into the wood and his shoulders down. He’s not usually so...docile. But then again, Butch ain’t normally this aggressive either. So like, there’s that. 

He smears lube over his fingers, dropping too much of it onto the deck and the side of his foot. Kneeling behind Tate, he slips two fingers in this time, already sure that one will go in just fine. Tate groans low and heavy as Butch scissors him open. But his cock is hard and his hand is shaking and he just wants to be inside of Tate already, so instead of adding a third finger he slicks his cock instead. 

As Butch slides in, he grabs the back of Tate’s hair again, twisting his fingers in the long strands and wrenching his head to the side. He slams his hips in, and the sound he gets back out of Tate is perfect, just perfect.

Tate’s too warm and too tight. When he starts rocking his hips back onto Butch, Butch is sure he’s going to lose it. Then, when Tate starts talking, it’s even worse. “Yeah, that’s it, Butch, fuck, fuck, show me what a piece of shit I am. Fuck me.”

Butch lets go of Tate’s hair, grabbing his shoulders instead, while Tate pushes himself back up. Using Tate’s shoulders as leverage, Butch slams harder into him. Tate wraps his right hand around his own cock, jerking himself while Butch fucks him. 

“You’re such a fucking brat,” Butch normally ain’t got much to say, but he makes an effort. “You just think that you can, fuck, fuck, that I’ll just-”

He wants to see Tate’s face. So Butch wills himself to stop, to pull out. Tate doesn’t wanna and starts bitching right away. “I swear to fucking fuck, I’m going to fucking-” Butch gets Tate flipped over again. And Tate shouts back, his cheeks red and glasses lopsided on his face, “Are you trying to fucking make me dizz-”

Butch doesn’t wait for Tate to finish, just pushing back inside as quickly as he can because his patience is coming to an end too. It’s pretty, so pretty, the way Tate’s mouth opens as Butch nails straight into him, sinking the head of his cock against Tate’s prostate because they sure as fuck have fucked enough that he can get it right with his eyes closed. Tate’s eyes are open too, and his black hair wild around his face, sticking to his forehead with sweat as he comes across his stomach. He doesn’t stop pumping himself while Butch fucks him. But he goes a little incomprehensible. The words aren’t quite right anymore. 

Pulling out of Tate’s hole, Butch strokes himself faster with his hand than he could manage while inside of Tate, his stomach tensing as he starts to come, spilling out over Tate’s stomach and chest. “Mine, mine,” oh fuck, that jealous thing inside himself that he almost hates just keeps coming through the seams. Butch doesn’t mean for it to. Tate never seems to mind, but he doesn’t know how deep Butch’s possessiveness can go. How, sometimes, when it grips him, Butch thinks about running the three-thousand miles back to the Capital because someone who laid their hands on Tate might still be alive, somewhere.

“Fuck,” Tate laughs, putting his hand on his sweaty forehead and pushing his hair to the side. He’s smiling so bright, “That was so, so good,” he draws out his vowels. “If I had known, I would have let you see me in them sooner.” Tate pushes himself up onto his elbows to look at Butch.

Sitting back on his heels, Butch tries to catch his breath. “Fuck, how the hell was I supposed to know, Tate?”

Tate shrugs his shoulders. “Was hot, though. I need a damn shower.” Tate starts getting up, but Butch grabs his wrist, keeping him on the floor with him a minute longer. They kneel across from each other, legs tucked underneath them. Butch pushes Tate’s glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before leaning forward to kiss him, softer than he means to.

“Do you need them?” he asks.

Tate tilts his head to one side, “They help a little, up close. I can read for longer with them on.”

Butch nods, letting go of Tate’s wrist if he wants to go shower. Before he stands, Tate tips forward once more, brushing his lips against Butch’s.


	15. Amnesia AU - Chapter 7

Butch runs. He just fucking runs. Even though the arches in his beat-up sneakers aren’t great, so his shins start hurting almost right away, the pain spiking up through the backs of his legs too, all the way to his knee, so he’s hurting on both sides. Then his lungs start to burn because he ain’t got the endurance. Running ain’t his thing and it never was. So now he hurts, back to front, inside and out. But he keeps listening to the sound of his feet against the sidewalk because it drowns out every shitty thing that he’s ever heard.

And most of those shitty things are stuff Tate said to him before the accident. Stuff about how much of a fucking asshole Butch is. How he thinks he can be a bully because he’s really just fucking sad. And maybe being an asshole is better. And how Tate hates his stupid fucking face and the way he wears his hair. Tate’d say all those things, only to drag him into the bathroom stalls and they’d kiss each other until they were senseless and hard and terrified. 

Butch stops because he literally cannot fucking breathe anymore, doubling over onto the easement that is mostly just a patch of dirt with a layer of trash and a sprinkling of grass trying to hang on for dear life. He feels like he’s gonna vomit, but he only spits up saliva a couple of times as he tries to catch his breath. 

Once Butch is sure he ain’t gonna hurl, he rocks back to sit flat on his ass, knees folded towards his chest. He’s still dizzy, but he’ll be okay. Sucking down air, he realizes he can’t stay away forever. He can’t just leave Tate on his own. Tate doesn’t work. He can do like, basic shit, but his memory is still a mess. He still has to take his GED and he can’t be so fucking isolated. 

Amata, Amata would know what to do but she’s two states over at that fancy private college her daddy let her attend. Didn’t even come back when Tate woke up. Well, she might not even know that Tate woke up. Shit. Was he supposed to tell her? Maybe.

Pushing himself back up onto two feet, Butch realizes that he’s gotta go back to the apartment. And he’s gotta hope that Tate went there too. It takes him a minute to recognize where he is, walking to the nearest intersection and checking the street signs. He’s got a pretty good idea. And it shouldn’t take him more than forty-five minutes to walk home. Maybe that will give him time to come up with what to say to Tate.

At the same time, he feels like maybe he’s already said a lot of things. Tate’s said a lot of things too. Shit that Butch never expected to hear him say. He keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans while he walks, fidgeting with the lint inside there. Rolling the fibers into little balls that make his fingertips feel all chalky.

He makes it up the narrow stairs to his apartment, finding the door slightly ajar. So either Tate made it home, or they’ve been robbed. Could go either way, really. Cautiously, he pushes the door open.

His clothes are strewn over the floor, Tate’s too. More than a few of the shirts are ripped, torn at the seams or right down the middle. What few books they have are scattered in with the softer fabric. There’s a broken dish, the ceramic shards fanning out like a bloom, a nick in the wall where it struck. Not too big. The landlord might not even notice.

Butch steps carefully, not touching the lightswitch, the evening sun means the room is lit enough. He’s not sure if there is anything lurking in the mess of clothing, though. More sharp things. 

Tate is curled up in the middle of the bed, knees drawn tight to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes are closed, but that doesn't mean he’s asleep.

Butch sits at one corner of the bed, fully expecting Tate to lash out at him next, if the energy is there. Would be expected, for Tate to take out his anger on Butch’s face. Only fair, since Butch has always done the same to him. They used to do it to each other.

Tate rolls from his side onto his back, unfolding to splay across the mattress. There’s a bruise on his face where Butch hit him, and another along his cheek, where Butch didn’t. Might be other bruises too. Yeah, the same side as the cheek, down Tate’s arm. But he can’t see any holes in the wall. So maybe Tate did it outside. He’s seen it, when Tate would throw himself into a locker or some shit. Sometimes after trying to beat Butch, sometimes before. Sometimes, Butch wasn’t even involved. Just a bystander. Figured Tate did that too...the accident. Whatever, Butch doesn’t want to think about it.

“You came back,” Tate speaks at the ceiling. 

“Yeh,” Butch looks from Tate to the opposite wall, then back to Tate again. “Figure, you and I always will...come back.”

Tate laughs, sick. “I was so angry at you. But the whole time, I wanted you next to me too. Is that weird?”

“Nah,” Butch admits, because he knows the feeling all too well. “You wanna punch me now?”

“That how we used to resolve this?” Tate asks. His fingers are skimming at the hem of his tee shirt, starting to push it up inch, inch, inch.

“One of the ways.” The words feel coarse in Butch’s mouth. 

Tate ain’t gonna punch him.

“What was another way?” Tate pushes his back up off the mattress, tearing his shirt off. Butch ain’t gotta tell him the other way. Fucker knows. 

Butch’s pants are getting too tight and he could’ve sworn he had something to say to Tate just a minute ago. But all he can manage is, “I’m sorry.”

Tate stills on his way into Butch’s lap. But he doesn’t stay that way, resuming his movements to spread his legs over Butch’s hips, take his face in his hands and make their lips meet. Tate’s scraping at Butch’s mouth with every pass and clawing at his neck with his nails. WIth only his boxers on, Tate’s erection presses hard against Butch’s stomach, warm and insistent.

Butch wraps his arms around Tate’s waist, holding them close, keeping their bodies locked as Tate grinds against him. They stay like that for a long time, wet mouths and warm hands, until Tate decides to break away. His bruised face gets Butch to cringe again. Even the strikes he didn’t land are sort of his fault. 

“We gonna use those condoms or not?” Tate bites the tip of his tongue. “Or am I not being obvious enough?” he thrusts forward again, poking into Butch’s stomach.

“Can’t get em with you in my lap, Tate.” Reaching up, Butch runs his fingers through Tate’s hair, moving it out of his forehead. 

Shifting off, Tate lets Butch get up. The grocery bag is still by the door, so at least Tate didn’t rip through that stuff. He also didn’t put any of the fridge items away, letting them grow warm on the floor. Butch picks up the whole bag, shoving what needs to go into the fridge in there while Tate waits for him to come back.

He pushes his jeans down first, then feels silly because his shirt is still on. Tate’s already shoved away his boxers, waiting impatiently for Butch to get a fucking move on. 

“Leave it on,” Tate says, when Butch reaches for the hem of his shirt. “You look hot like that.”

Butch snickers, starting to tear at the foil packet. He’s gone a little soft, but watching Tate rub his cock in his hand idly will get him back quick. 

They end up with Butch’s back against the wall and Tate in his lap again, throwing himself down on Butch’s cock over and over. Butch is exhausted and he’s not even doing the work, but Tate keeps scrambling through, clawing at Butch’s tee shirt, grabbing at his arms until he hoists them up over Butch’s head, pinning them to the wall behind the mattress as he slams their hips together. 

Tate manages to come virtually untouched, his cock just rubbing against the fabric of Butch’s shirt and Butch’s cock in his ass. Maybe because he could just like, aim Butch’s dick where it was supposed to go or whatever. Butch can’t be that intellectual about it because it’s about the most fucking beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the way Tate’s mouth goes slack and his eyes close, the little shriek he’ll probably claim never happened. And he’s so fucking tight that Butch goes off in the condom, still nailed to the wall under Tate’s strength, even as the rest of him starts to slack.

Kissing Butch with too much softness, Tate starts to let go, rolling off of Butch’s lap and flat onto the mattress, giving out panting breaths. 

“Feel better now?” Butch asks. He feels like he should say he’s sorry again.

“So we hated each other, because we wanted to do that?” Tate ignores Butch’s question.

“Um, maybe yeah. I didn’t think so until later. Until like, high school.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Tate groans into Butch’s side. Butch takes that as his cue to back up from the wall too, but he’s gotta tie off the condom first and toss it, no matter how much Tate wordlessly protests. 

He gets back under the covers, Tate’s warmth settling in at his side. “I can’t do that anymore. And you can’t either. Well like,” Butch considers how to put it. “Still, if you want to punch me right now, I’d have to let you. But, I shouldn’t’ve…”

“Stop babying me,” Tate cuts in. “I ain’t a child.”

Butch laughs, because they’re both still sort of children. Fuck. Well, Butch will be 19 soon so like, they’re not kids-kids. But they ain’t like...fuck, he doesn’t even know.

“I should be better, at loving you.”

Tate keeps his face buried at Butch’s neck, “I should be too.”

Butch is pretty sure that’s as close to a confession as he’s gonna get. He’ll fucking take it, though.


	16. Butch/Tate Prompt: During Molecules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Anonymous said: tell us about the thoughts in tate and butch's heads as they lay alone in their beds the night of their first kiss in molecules.

His father left patient files in the living room, spread out across the couch. All those patients are dead. Gone long before his father was even born. Tate doesn’t know why his father reads them. Over and over again. Looking for something, maybe. Tate doesn’t know quite what.

Tate stares up at the ceiling, an endless haze of blue-gray metal surfaces. The walls, the floors, the ceilings. Punctuated with bulbs of yellowed light. He puts one hand over his eyes. The other fist, he sticks into his mouth and starts to scream.

He stops before he gets too loud, biting into his hand instead, he wants to break the skin. He wants to have blood fill his mouth.

What did Butch taste like? It hasn’t been an hour. But Tate forgets.

He bites and bites, but his skin stays intact. 

Can’t remember the taste, but he remembers Butch’s hands, feverish against his skin. He remembers the weight of Butch’s cock in his hand, the way their teeth scraped on every kiss.

Tate, you didn’t say.

He takes his fist out of his mouth, licking across his palm to wetten it. Doesn’t matter that he just came in his Vault suit, Butch groping at his dick. He’s hard again, wild and tense. He squeezes his cock until it almost hurts, thrusting up into his hand, hips coming off the bed. Spreading his thighs wide, knees bent, he thinks about Butch on top of him, pressing his knees back down, holding him in place.

Tate slides two fingers of his other hand past his teeth, deeper and deeper until he gags around them. He pulls them out, smearing spit across his face. 

When he comes across his stomach, he has to cover his mouth again. This time so he doesn't shout his giddy laughter.

Butch wants him.

\--

Tate wants him.

Pacing his room, Butch’s hands shake. He punches his closed fist into his open palm, again and again and again. He fucking likes the way it sounds.

And he likes the way he can still smell Tate on him, like he's seeped into his pores, sticking in his hair. Because, shit, sometimes he hates Tate so bad, for being nothing like Butch wants, and everything he can't stop thinking about. No matter how he tries.

But sometimes, he knows he's got it bad, bad, bad. Like when he licks his fingers so he can taste Tate’s cum, though logically, he knows it's gone. Like how he smiles despite himself, when he thinks about touching Tate again.

Throwing himself to the floor, Butch leans back against his bedroom door. He pounds his fists against the ground. He taps his feet. He chews his lip.

More than anything, he wants a cigarette. Reaching for his coat, hanging on the hook above his head, Butch grabs his pack and lighter. He puts a stick between his lips. The first drag stops the shaking, the second makes him smile again.

He doesn't know how this ends. Him and Tate. He isn't as stupid as people think. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he bumps his forehead against his legs and laughs, ash falling into his lap. 

The Overseer will fucking kill him. If he finds out.

They're not supposed to be this way. Him and Tate. This ain't the Overseer’s plan.

But Butch knows who he is. Known it for a long time. He takes the cigarette from between his teeth, cursing Tate’s name. Knowing full well, he’ll always find it on his tongue.

He licks against the inside of his lip, where Tate broke through his skin.


	17. Butch/Tate/Reyes Vidal - Mass Effect Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is also from a bunch of different Tumblr prompts with Butch and Tate in the MEA setting, and the terrible variable of Reyes Vidal.

There's a howling between Tate’s ears, drowning out his heartbeat. 

Sinking to his knees, he reaches out, pawing at the front of Reyes’ slacks. His cock hard but still pinned down against his leg.

Fucking Reyes and his fucking smile, and the fucking way he winked at Tate, while Butch was over at the merchant’s trying to trade shitty rocks for medigel. Short supply on the Nexus, Tann had argued. Lexi can't keep raiding their stores.

How the fuck had the Initiative crossed dark space without enough fucking medigel to go around? Even if the Exiles took off with literal crates of the stuff when they jumped ship. Tate is always about half a step away from bailing too, with their pretty Tempest and prettier Engineer.

And when that pretty Engineer puts his hand in Tate’s hair, he about loses it. Feeling the heat and solid weight of Butch behind him, threading his fingers through bleached strands.

“You really want this?” Butch’s voice is raspy, dry. But his hands are sweating dampening Tate’s hair. “Thought you hated doing this?”

“Doesn't look like he hates it, from where I'm standing,” Reyes comments, sliding his fingers over his belt buckle, working the end back through the loop. 

Tate tips his head back, brushing against Butch’s crotch. He's hard too, penning Tate in between their two bodies. The metal flooring his hard on his knees, but he’ll live.

“Butch is right,” Tate smiles, trying to look up through his eyelashes. He's not sure how it comes off. At least Reyes’ eyes are still on him. “Fucking hate sucking cock. That's the point.”

Reyes smiles, because he gets it. Tate knew that he would. Butch is only playing dumb, thinking that he doesn't perfectly understand. Because his hand tightens in Tate’s hair, pulling his head to one side sharp enough that Tate gasps. 

“Suck him, then. But I should warn you, out of the goodness of my heart,” Butch directs his counsel to Reyes, “he's all teeth.”

Laughing, Reyes reaches down to drum his fingers against Tate’s jaw, “So am I.”

-

“You should sleep in the Pathfinder’s quarters,” Tate says, his voice still scratchy-hoarse and sore. A phantom pressure against his soft palate that won't go away, no matter how many bottles of water he drinks.

They're enroute back to Eos now, the hum of the Tempest under their feet, over their heads, holding them close. Kinda, weirdly, reminds him of home. Tate leans back against the wall, letting his feet slide a bit out from under him, watching Butch’s eyes darken as he shifts in the unrelenting light.

“Why?” Butch asks, picking at his cuticles. He's freshly showered, hair still wet and his face shaved close. Makes him look real young. They both are. Too young for the vastness of the task before them.

But Butch doesn't have to be here. Butch didn't get stuck with a unrelenting voice in his head. One that keeps trying to convince Tate that he's the only one. Only parroting back what the Nexus leadership wants from him. Pathfinder. Pathfinder. Pathfinder.

Butch could bail. But he doesn't. 

“Cause I want you to,” Tate slips down another quarter inch. His hair sticks to the wall behind him, standing up while he keeps sliding down.

Butch shoves his hands into his pockets, sneering. “You still smell like him,” Butch snaps.

Oh the other side of the wall, Tate can hear Lexi gasp. They're both too fucking loud.

“I'll shower,” Tate offers, like that will fix a damn thing.

He doesn't give Butch the time to argue, pushing off against the wall and heading towards the bathroom. 

By the time he gets out, the lights are dim in his room. Butch a steady-breathing lump on one side of the bed.


End file.
